by Norma Darcy
“Certain, Mr. Croft, certain. Many a young gentleman on the Grand Tour bought such fake antiquities. See how we have fragments of different gods all jumbled up together? Rome was flooded with them.”
“I need to inform his lordship of the exact value,” said Mr. Croft, jotting something down in his journal.
“I would not dignify it with a mark in your book, Mr. Croft,” said Sir Jeremiah, and bowed slightly.
Miss Blakelow coughed discreetly, and the two visitors whirled around like startled rabbits. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
Mr. Croft bowed. “Frederick Croft. Your servant, ma’am. I am Lord Marcham’s man of business. And this gentleman is Sir Jeremiah Allen.”
The tall, bony man bowed, sneering down his long nose at Georgiana. “Sir Jeremiah Allen, Baronet, of Charmouth House, Miss Blakelow, perhaps you’ve heard of me? I am something of a collector of fine things.” And as he said this, he very deliberately let his eyes travel up and down her figure.
Miss Blakelow raised one brow in polite inquiry.
“Of art, you understand,” Mr. Croft put in hastily. “Sir Jeremiah has a reputation for collecting fine and rare antiquities, paintings . . . things of that nature.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should explain. His lordship, the earl, has tasked me with selling Thorncote house, and it has been recommended by a friend of the earl’s that he ask Sir Jeremiah to accompany me to undertake a valuation of the contents.”
Mr. Croft registered the look on Miss Blakelow’s face and fell silent. Clearly, he had not wanted to do this; indeed, it appeared that he had rather be anywhere than looking through Miss Blakelow’s home when she obviously had issue with their presence.
“And was it Lord Marcham who desired that this valuation be made?” Miss Blakelow asked.
“Yes—well, that is to say, he wished for a valuation of the property—given the sad state of decline of the estate. It was his lordship’s sister, Sarah, Lady St. Michael, who desired an inventory be made.”
“And what has it to do with Lady St. Michael how much our home is worth?” demanded Miss Blakelow.
Sir Jeremiah balanced his weight on one thin leg and pulled an intricately carved snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket. He flicked open the lid with one thin finger, took a pinch, and put it to his nose, inhaling violently. He snapped the snuffbox closed and put it away again. “Lady St. Michael is a particular friend of mine. She is interested in purchasing the house, but she wants to know whether the contents are of value or—” He paused as his eye alighted on a clock on the mantelpiece. “Or not,” he finished, his voice trailing off disdainfully.
Sir Jeremiah moved toward the mantelpiece, ignored the clock, but picked up a small china jug that sat next to it. He turned it upside down and examined the mark on the base. “Ah, I thought so. A Dresden piece. Quite pretty but sadly missing the rest of the set to which it belongs. Mark it in your journal, Mr. Croft.”
The other gentleman opened his book and set his hand with pencil poised. “What shall I write down for its value, Sir Jer—”
“Please have the goodness to leave this house immediately,” Miss Blakelow said in a tightly controlled voice.
“Lady St. Michael informed me that there used to be a collection of paintings by the Dutch masters,” Sir Jeremiah replied, looking down at her as if she were a worm. “She tasked me to look at them and give my opinion as to their value.”
“You may tell Lady St. Michael that they were sold years ago,” flashed Miss Blakelow. “The gallery, which she no doubt remembers from her visits here in her youth, is now completely empty. My stepfather sold every last one to pay off his debts. There is nothing in this house of value. Now please, respect our wishes and leave.”
Mr. Croft closed his journal. “I apologize, Miss Blakelow. I realize that this must be upsetting for you—”
“You heard my sister,” said a voice behind Georgiana, and she turned to see Ned entering the hallway, followed by his brother and sisters.
“I can assure you, it won’t take us long,” Mr. Croft said.
Ned took another step forward. “When we have vacated this house, you may pick over the details at your leisure; until then, you are not welcome.”
“We cannot do that, I am afraid,” drawled Sir Jeremiah. “You could conceivably sell any remaining items of value, which technically now belong to his lordship. The terms of your brother William’s agreement with his lordship stated that the house and its contents were part of the wager. Lord Marcham owns everything in this house. I need to see jewelry, paintings, china—”
Ned took a hasty step forward, bristling with anger, but Miss Blakelow halted him with a gentle hand on his arm. She gave his arm a squeeze and a look to let him know that she would deal with it.
Addressing herself to Mr. Croft, who seemed genuinely embarrassed by the whole affair and looked as if he wished the tiles at his feet might slide apart and let him sink through them, Miss Blakelow said, “Then technically, your master owns the clothes on my back too, Mr. Croft?”
The gentleman’s discomfiture seemed to increase. “I, er—”
“Perhaps you’d like to look through my stays and stockings?” she asked softly.
Georgiana heard the gasp of her aunt beside her and a collective giggle from her younger sisters. She stared at Mr. Croft but he would not meet her eyes.
“Have the goodness to adhere to my wishes, gentlemen. I can assure you, as the good Christian woman that I am, there is no longer anything of value in this house other than the people who reside in it. There is nothing left. You have my word. I swear upon my mother’s grave.”
Sir Jeremiah Allen took out his quizzing glass and spied Miss Blakelow at great length through it in so insolent a manner as to bring the heat into her cheeks. “And aren’t you a fine piece?” he murmured.
Ned’s temper snapped; he broke free of Georgiana’s grasp and seized the man by the lapels. Sir Jeremiah cried out and raised a hand to protect his face, thinking he was about to be landed a facer. Ned was not quite eighteen, but boxing was quickly turning him into a very fine figure of a man. “Out,” he hissed, manhandling the baronet to the door. “Get out and don’t come back.”
Miss Blakelow threw a pleading look at John, who took the hint, coughed discreetly, and said, “Your carriage is waiting, gentlemen,” as he gently prized Ned’s fists from Sir Jeremiah’s coat.
“Lady St. Michael will hear of this,” the baronet fumed, brushing his assailant’s fingerprints from the wide lapels on his coat. “She will hear of this, I say. And Lord Marcham.”
John took two steps forward until he was nose to nose with the gentleman, his bulk almost pinning the man to the wall. “I believe you heard what Master Ned told you,” he said.
The baronet whimpered.
Mr. Croft attempted a smile. “I apologize, Miss Blakelow. I can see emotions are running high and that is to be entirely expected. If I have your word that nothing of value will leave this house, then that is good enough for me.”
Miss Blakelow inclined her head. “Thank you, Mr. Croft. Good day.”
The gentlemen departed, and John had just closed the front door upon them when Jack burst out with, “Georgie! Did you see his face when you asked him if he wanted to look through your underclothes? Lord, I nearly died laughing!”
“He deserved to be embarrassed,” Ned said crossly. “Barging in here to look over the house. I can barely believe Marcham’s gall.”
Miss Blakelow sighed and herded her family back into the drawing room. “It is not Mr. Croft’s fault, or his lordship’s either. Mr. Croft has been asked to sell Thorncote, and to do that he needs to set a value. Lord Marcham is only doing what any man would do in his situation.”
“How can you say that, Georgie?” cried Ned. “He sent that—that odious clod to examine the few things we have left that Father didn’t think valuable enough to sell.”
“I don’t think that was Lord Marcham’s doing,” put in Aunt Blakelow, seat
ing herself back in her favorite chair. “His lordship’s sister, Lady Sarah, as she was then, was always poking her nose into his affairs. She must have heard about William losing Thorncote to her brother and decided she wanted it for herself. She always liked it here. And it’s close enough to his lordship’s estate for her to keep an eye on him.”
“She’s dreadful,” Catherine said, pulling her sewing from her workbasket. “Do you remember she came here last summer while she was staying with the earl and told us that the arrangement of the furniture in the drawing room should be changed?”
“Was she the woman who told you that pink did not become you?” asked Lizzy, wrinkling her brow.
Catherine’s eyes flashed at the memory. “And she told Marianne that her performance on the pianoforte was nearly as accomplished as her own.”
“Odious woman,” Marianne chimed in, tucking her feet up under her. “I cannot believe she is to have Thorncote. I’d rather Lord Marcham sell it to a complete stranger than let her live here. I wish something could be done.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Georgie tried, didn’t she? And his lordship wouldn’t listen. We have no money to pay him back for Will’s debts.”
Ned paced over to the window, scowling out onto the park and the grass that gently shelved toward the lake. “We have to do something.”
“What can we do?” Catherine asked. “His lordship has given us three months to leave. The boys will go to live with Uncle Charles, of course, but he doesn’t have room for all of us, so we girls will be sent to Mama’s sister. But what of you, Aunt, and Georgie? Where will you go? I’m afraid, we will be split up.”
A silence answered this prophecy, and the sun went behind a cloud, plunging the room into gloom. “Not if I have anything to say to it,” remarked Ned, folding his arms.
“What are you going to do?” demanded Jack.
“I have an idea,” said his brother and strode from the room.
John Maynard was outside the front of the house, cutting back the rosebushes that had overgrown the window of the summer parlor. Since the Blakelows had let their head gardener go, John had turned his hand to odd jobs in the grounds. He was no plantsman, but he knew how to chop back a hedge. From here, by the stone balustrade, he could see anyone approaching the house and would have time to dash back inside the house to greet them as the nearest thing to a butler they’d had for years.
John’s head snapped up when he heard Ned’s footstep on the gravel behind him. John nodded a greeting and returned to his task. Ned seated himself on the stone balustrade and swung his legs back and forth, watching John.
John looked at his young master again. “Mind you don’t fall,” he said as he snipped the stem of a huge green sucker at the base of the rose.
“I won’t,” Ned replied, dismissing the drop behind him with nonchalance.
“Are you in trouble, Master?” John asked, throwing the thorny stem into the wheelbarrow.
“Why do you automatically assume I’m in a scrape?” Ned demanded indignantly. “I wanted to ask your advice.”
“Oh?” John replied without interest. “Found a girl you like, have you?”
The young man flushed. “No. At least no, it isn’t that.”
“Good, because I don’t understand women at all, so it’s no good you asking me.”
Ned grinned and sat on his hands. “John?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were in the army, weren’t you?”
“The navy. Served under Miss Blakelow’s father, Captain Clayton. And a fine captain, he was.” His eyes grew wistful but then he caught himself, as if he had revealed too much.
“But you’ve seen some action?”
“Fought against the French in the West Indies, Master Ned, as the ache in my leg can testify. Why are you asking me all these questions? That’s what I wish to know.”
Ned closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Hypothetically, if you were to kidnap a man, how would you go about it?”
There was a long silence.
“I beg your pardon, Master Ned?”
“I think you heard me well enough.”
There was an even longer silence.
“Are you funning?”
“No, sir.”
John eyed him speculatively and scratched his head. “Hypothetically? You’d need a weapon of some kind. Some rope and something to gag him with. A cart or carriage of some kind to transport the man to wherever you plan to hold him. Some fool willing to drive the cart for you. Some courage, a little luck, and God on your side, because if you get caught, you’ll probably hang, and I’ll hang along with you because Miss Georgie will want to see me dead for letting you do it.”
Ned flushed a little. “How would you do it? Where?”
“Didn’t hear what I just said, did you?” John remarked, shoving the pruning shears inside the waistband of his breeches. He sighed and folded his arms. “I’d do it on his own turf, halfway between the lodge gates and his front door so he’s not expecting it and none of his household can come running to his aid. I’d do it at a spot where trees overhang the road so you cannot be seen from the house. I’d do it when the gentleman, whoever he is, will likely be fast asleep in his carriage. At night, after he’s been out to dine with friends. And if he’s in his cups, even better.”
Ned nodded, staring off into space, filing away the information for later use. “He’s fought duels before, so they say, illegal ones,” he remarked, frowning. Clearly this worried him.
“Aye, he’s a crack shot. If it’s the gentleman I think it is, you’ll need a weapon or two and cronies with you to keep the coach driver or the groom busy while you deal with your man. He keeps a pistol under the seat in his carriage, so I’m told. A sack thrown over his head from behind, so he can’t see, would do much to aid you, but expect him to put up a fight—even if you stop him from reaching his pistol, from all I hear, he can handle himself in the ring.”
Ned ran one finger between his neckcloth and his throat, as if the simple arrangement were choking him. “Would you help me, John?” he asked quietly.
John sighed. “I knew that was coming. Aye, I’ll help you. But don’t breathe a word to anyone. Not your sisters and especially not your aunt. It’ll be all over the neighborhood by breakfast.”
“As if I would do such a thing!” Then he realized John was teasing him and grinned again, feeling happier now that he had his promise to help.
John lifted the handles of the wheelbarrow and began to push it across the gravel to the pathway that led around the side of the house. “And if this hypothetical kidnap was to happen the night before his lordship’s wedding, Master Ned, I can see as how that would be very persuasive. Very persuasive, indeed.”
CHAPTER 8
HIS LORDSHIP AWOKE TO find that quarrymen were trying to batter their way through his skull—or at least that’s what it felt like. The pounding in his head made him wish he could take that part of his anatomy off and set it apart from the rest of his body.
Slowly he opened his eyes and was momentarily confused when he could not see anything. It took him a moment to realize that a blindfold had been tied over his eyes and he had been gagged quite roughly. He was sitting in a hard, uncomfortable chair with his ankles bound together and his wrists lashed so tightly to the back of the chair that he was losing the feeling in his fingers. A fine film of sweat was on his brow, and the back of his head felt tight with congealed blood.
“Is he awake?” asked a young male voice.
“I don’t know,” said another, slightly deeper voice.
“Prod him,” said the young lad again. “See if he moves.”
“Leave him alone. Haven’t you had enough violence for one night?” replied the older boy. “Make yourself useful and get him some water. However much I loathe him, I don’t want him dying up here.”
“What are you planning to do with him if he won’t agree to our demands?”
“Let him fetch you up before the local magi
strate for asking stupid questions,” hissed his accomplice.
Brothers perhaps? his lordship wondered.
“But we can’t keep him up here forever. George is bound to find out.”
“Then we’ll just have to keep him quiet.”
Lord Marcham thought back to the events that had brought him to make the acquaintance of his kidnappers. He had been late coming home from his best friend’s wedding. The service had been accomplished without mishap, the rings exchanged, and the happy couple waved off, but on the journey home, barely ten miles out of Harrogate, one of his lordship’s leaders had thrown a shoe, and the groom had to walk to the nearest inn before a blacksmith could be found, so that it was nearly dark before they set off again.
Mr. Thomas Edridge had married Lady Emily Holt by special license in Harrogate, the lady’s grandmother in attendance. The happiness on the face of his best friend was something to behold. He had never seen Tom look so satisfied with his lot.
The world and Lord and Lady Holt were in blissful ignorance of the momentous events of the day. Lady Holt no doubt still believed that her eldest daughter would turn up at the church at Holme Park to wed the Earl of Marcham. She believed that her daughter was at that moment returning from a day out shopping with her friend.
But no invitations had been sent, no flowers decorated the church at Holme, there was to be no wedding breakfast. Lord Marcham was shortly to inform Lady Holt of the news that the wedding of her daughter had already taken place and give her a piece of his mind along with it.
But on the drive home a shot had rung out. The horses bolted and were checked, and the carriage came to a shuddering halt. He could hardly believe his ears. Someone had the temerity, the utter gall, to hold him up on the road that led to his house.
Having drunk a few glasses of champagne to the happy couple, he felt decidedly worse for wear. He frowned, focusing his bleary eyes on the slim youth who appeared at the window. The door was wrenched open, and the wide snout of a blunderbuss nuzzled through and was leveled ominously at his head. His lordship possessed a particularly fine pair of dueling pistols, which unfortunately were under the opposite seat, and he’d been debating how he was going to get to them without having his head blown off when the youth gestured that he leave the carriage and get down onto the road. He reflected grimly that if he had not spent the past half hour fantasizing about telling Lady Holt exactly what he thought of her, he might have been more alert at the first shout of the brigands to halt, and he might have stood a chance of escaping this situation without loss of his purse.