He hurried to her side. Sophia’s sister looked enough like her that it was painful to look at her for a brief moment, then he got hold of himself and took charge. “Where were you? What happened?”
Gemma explained that they’d gone into the garden to get a breath of air and that she’d come inside to fetch their wraps. “When I stepped inside, Greaves was waiting with a tea tray. It had two cups. And he said he’d been on his way out to bring them to us, since it was chilly out. He insisted I drink mine there since I was shivering. And though I was in a hurry, I drank it so he’d let me go.”
“And then what happened?” Ben prodded. He needed every bit of information Gemma could give him in order to find Sophia. “Did he say anything else?”
“I think he apologized,” she said, shaking her head a little. “And when I started to tremble, he helped me to a chair and told me that Mr. Morgan would see to it that I was compensated.”
Compensated? Ben stared. What could that possibly mean?
“I found her in the chair,” Ivy offered, from where she stood by Kerr’s side. “And she told me that Sophia was in the garden. When I went to look, she was gone. But her walking stick was there, tossed into the shrubbery.”
“And there was no sign of where they’d gone?” Ben asked, his blood racing with fear. If Morgan, who had likely had Framingham murdered, was in involved, then there was no telling what he’d do to Sophia.
“None,” Ivy said sadly. “But I think we can guess where he’s taken her. If Greaves was working for Morgan, then they must be there.”
“We need to search the man’s rooms,” Ben said forcefully, already striding for the door to head down the servants stairs.
“Wait,” Maitland said, following. “I’ll come with you.”
Not waiting to see if he was behind him, Ben kept walking.
Greaves’ rooms were small but tidy. He had a small bedroom that was modestly furnished, and a sitting room that was decorated with a far more sophisticated hand than Ben would have suspected of him.
In a place of prominence on the wall, however, was a framed painting that he recognized as one of the works lost in the Channel crossing.
He stepped closer and saw that on the table beside it was a wooden case, such as he’d seen in Sophia’s studio, made to hold pigments and paints. An idea came to him. “Do you know if Greaves ever showed an interest in art before Sophia came to Beauchamp House?” he asked Maitland, who’d come into the room behind him.
The duke frowned. “He used to chat with my aunt about her own work,” he said thoughtfully. “And I think I recall him saying once that he visited Primrose Green to take lessons on his off day.”
They’d assumed because Ryder was the one Morgan had publicly taken under his wing that he must also be the artist the man had hired to forge the paintings. Then, when the Primbles came into the picture, it had seemed that they were the likely suspects since Celeste might have told Evelyn about her father’s lost art. No one had considered that there was another person—living in Beauchamp House the whole time—who might also have known about the lost paintings. And whose skill with a brush might be every bit as good at copying as anyone at Primrose Green.
“We have to get to Morgan’s mansion,” he said, the possibility of why Greaves might take Sophia there sending a shiver of fear through him. “I think that’s where he’s taken her. And I believe I know why.”
* * *
Whatever it was that Greaves had used to make her lose consciousness had left Sophia with a dry mouth and a groggy head. She became aware of both as she woke up in the back of a moving cart as it bumped over a bit of rough terrain. Her hands were bound, as were her ankles, and though her head wasn’t covered, there was a blanket draped over her whole body that prevented her from seeing where they were headed.
The memory of Greaves overpowering her was disturbing enough, but more troubling was the fact that she had no notion of why he would do such a thing. As with most servants, he’d been good at being always at the ready without revealing much about his own personality. He had always, she’d known, had a soft spot for her. But to her shame, she’d accepted it as just another instance of her outward appearance bringing her undeserved praise. It hadn’t occurred to her until he’d kept the letter from Lady Celeste, that his affection might run to something more sinister. Or that it could be a ruse to make her think he was more harmless than he was.
Her mind raced as she tried to remember just what he’d said about his reasons for hiding the letter. But nothing she could recall would have alerted her to the fact that he was planning to kidnap her. He’d said he was trying to keep her safe, and it had seemed at the time that he was sincere. Ben had even thought so.
At the thought of Ben, her gut clenched. What would he do when he discovered she was missing? She wished again that she’d been more forceful about making him stay that afternoon. If he’d been there, she would never have gone into the garden at all. Much less found herself bound and gagged in the back of a cart.
She heard the driver telling the horses to slow, and then the cart rolled to a stop. She waited in fear for Greaves to come for her, but rather than the butler, when the blanket was ripped away she saw two large footmen. One look at the blue and red livery they wore told her exactly where the butler had brought her.
They were at Morgan’s mansion.
The larger of the footmen hauled her from the cart and when her ankle refused to hold her weight, he muttered a curse and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She schooled herself against the indignity of being held against the man’s body, especially when the memory of Ben cradling her against his chest was still fresh in her mind. As she bumped against his back, she tried to see details of the house and was strangely relieved to see that at the very least she was correct about the location. Bits of decor and wall hangings, familiar from the ball less than a week ago, told her she was indeed in Morgan’s home.
Finally, after what felt like ages, the footmen, and Greaves, who had been walking behind them as if he were any guest being ushered in to see the master of the house, entered what looked from Sophia’s upside-down perspective, to be the drawing room.
None too gently, the footman who was carrying her bent forward and deposited her, bottom down, into a chair. As he did so, her elbows went in opposite directions. And she realized that the rope knotted around her wrists wasn’t as tight as it had been. Something about the bouncing journey from the cart to the house must have loosened it.
“This one can’t stand,” he said with a grunt to his master, who stood surveying the newcomers like so much driftwood coming on to shore. “Something wrong with her leg.”
And having said his peace, he and his fellow left the room, and shut the door behind them. Clearly, Morgan must ask for many such odd tasks from his servants, she thought grimly. They didn’t seem particularly upset or concerned that their master had just had them bring a kidnap victim into his home.
“What have you done, Greaves?” Morgan asked, looking from Sophia to the butler of Beauchamp House, who had come to stand beside her chair.
“I’ve brought the reason for all your troubles,” Greaves said plainly. “It goes against the grain, but now, I want you to do me the courtesy of letting me leave unharmed.”
“You damned fool,” Morgan growled. “This is the last thing I needed. Do you know how many people will be looking for this woman? She’s all but betrothed to the son of the Duke of Pemberton! I wanted her separated from him, but not like this. It’s why I sent for the bloody bishop to chastise him. Now you’ll lead the authorities right to my door.”
“And you see how well your scheme to tell the bishop worked,” Greaves returned, unrepentant. “Lord Benedick’s kind never thinks authority applies to them. You know how the quality are. It’s why I threw my lot in with you, sir. You represent the new way of doing things. Where men rise based on their talent and their determination, not by accident of birth.”
“T
hat’s as may be, Greaves,” Morgan said, his florid face looking, if anything, redder, “but you’ve got to play within the rules of the game. You can’t simply kidnap their women and expect them to go away. We had a good scheme worked out. You’re a talented artist, and I appreciate all you’ve done for us, but your time with this operation is at an end. This only proves it.” He gestured to Sophia as if she were a prime example of the butler’s failings. “Now I’ve got to rid myself of both of you. Which will only bring more suspicion my way if I don’t take care of it the right way.”
Artist? Sophia’s brain teemed with the possibilities the industrialist’s remark ignited. Was it possible that Greaves was the forger? It seemed impossible, though the man had always seemed to be interested in her work. And had spoken fondly about Lady Celeste’s painting. She considered the matter as she continued her attempt to unravel the knot at her wrists.
At his words, Sophia saw Greaves stiffen. “What do you mean? I thought if I brought her to you it would make you see how important I am to you. You may think me too stupid to have realized it, but I know what you and Framingham were planning.”
Morgan stopped in the middle of his path to the bell pull. “I’m not sure what you think you know, Greaves…”
Then, out of the corner of her eye, Sophia saw the butler bring a pistol from beneath his coat. “I know that you were planning to have me killed,” he said coldly, leveling the gun at Morgan’s chest. “And I know that I stopped Framingham before he could carry out your orders.”
Chapter 27
At the sight of the gun, the color left Morgan’s face. “Now see here, Greaves. It wasn’t my idea. It was Framingham. He wanted to bring in Ryder because you were too close to the Hastings chit. He thought you wouldn’t be able to keep your secret. Especially since we thought Lady Celeste must have left her some word.”
Greaves laughed. The sound of it sent a chill down Sophia’s spine. “As you can see,” he said with a bitter laugh, “I am capable of overcoming my affection for the Hastings chit. Especially when it means a chance to save my own skin. It’s remarkable what the threat of death will do to change a man’s loyalties.”
“What do you intend to do, then?” Morgan asked, looking from Sophia to Greaves. “It sounded as if you thought to buy your safety by bringing her here. Which I can assure you will do just that. I’ll leave you be, man. Simply leave her here and go on your way. I’ll make sure the authorities never know about your role in the forgery scheme.”
But Greaves wasn’t appeased by the man’s about-face. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Morgan,” he said in a rare bit of discourtesy. “You’ve made it clear where you see me in the caste system and it is beneath you. You may preach to the masses that everyone is equal and deserves to rise to your level so long as they work hard, but it’s all a lie. You care for nothing but your own skin. You set this whole forgery scheme in motion as a way to humiliate your competitors. There was money in it, sure, but you enjoyed knowing that they were paying you large sums for paintings they thought would bring them class, respectability, when in fact they were my paintings. Worth a fraction of what they paid.”
“If you’re so disgusted by the idea of tricking these rich idiots,” Morgan asked with a sneer, “then why were you so eager to take your share of the profits?”
“Because I trusted you had a plan,” Greaves said with a shake of his head. Sophia could see that he was just as disillusioned by Morgan as Morgan was contemptuous of him. “I thought you were a man with a vision for how society was supposed to work. I spent the better part of my life working in the houses of people born to rank and wealth. I saw no way out for me. But then you moved to Little Seaford. And I heard you speak about how it was time for a new sort of world. Where folks with determination and talent would run things for a change. And I started to think that my place wasn’t fetching and carrying for the rich. It was out there, using my brush, like Miss Hastings here does, to show the world the truth.”
Sophia couldn’t help her gasp behind the gag.
“It’s true, Miss Hastings,” the butler said to her, his eyes sad. “I knew as soon as I saw your paintings that I could do the same with my work. But as much as I admire you, you’re just another one of them who loves power and privilege. It’s obvious by the company you keep. When you marry the vicar you’ll be one of them.”
So he thought to let Morgan kill her? She wanted to ask. That was certainly a high price to pay for marrying into an aristocratic family, she thought.
“This way, you’ll go before your flame is dimmed by marriage into that family,” the butler said kindly.
He really thinks he’s helping me, Sophia realized with a start. That death would be preferable to seeing me marry Ben.
At that moment, she managed to get her wrists free, and she schooled her features not to show her feeling of triumph. If she didn’t get out of this alive, it wouldn’t be from lack of trying on her part. She simply needed to wait for the right moment to make her move.
“This little scene is affecting,” Morgan said with more bravado than he seemed to be feeling. Sophia could see that the hand that grasped the desk behind him was white from gripping so hard. “But I remind you, Greaves, that I’ve offered to let you go unharmed. Just leave the lady with me and take yourself off. There will be no repercussions. I give you my word.”
“You think your word means a thing to me, Mr. Morgan?” the butler asked, his derision clear despite his polite use of the man’s name. “You’ve proven again and again that you’re loyal only to yourself and your own motives.”
At that moment, she saw a face in the window of the French door just behind Morgan.
It was Benedick.
Thinking quickly, she decided to create a distraction. With the gag in her mouth it was difficult, but not impossible. Groaning as loudly as she could, she slumped back in her chair, hoping against hope that some remainder of Greaves’ affection for her would bring him to her aid.
It worked. The butler glanced from Morgan and then, still holding the gun trained on the other man, he turned to see what was amiss with Sophia.
Waiting for her moment, when he leaned over her, she brought her freed hands forward and pushed against his chest with all her might.
* * *
Ben, accompanied by Kerr and Maitland, decided that it would be easier to get into the Morgan mansion under the guise of paying a call than it would be to attempt to break in. So, Maitland and Kerr drove over in Maitland’s curricle while Ben rode alongside them.
A few coins in the palm of a tinker on the road between Beauchamp House and the Morgan mansion told them that they were on the right track. Greaves had driven a cart with a blanket-covered load in the back about an hour earlier.
Ben planned to request a word with Morgan about his conversation with the bishop, which he reasoned must have been something the industrialist was expecting. That he’d brought his two aristocratic friends with him would, he hoped, seem like something a duke’s son would do.
Thus it was that they arrived before the ostentatious manor house, with its overabundance of stone decorations and multiple mullioned windows, as a group. And when the three men presented themselves at the door, it was obvious from the look on the butler’s face that the weight of the occasion was not lost on him.
“Your grace,” the man said, his eyes wide, “my lords. It is an honor to welcome you to Morgan Manor.”
Playing their roles to the hilt, Maitland lifted his quizzing glass, and Kerr gave the man a bored look.
“I should like to speak with Morgan immediately, sir,” Maitland said with the air of one who was never gainsaid.
“It’s a matter of some importance,” Kerr said. “Come man, look lively.”
“Mr. Morgan will know what it’s about,” Ben added. Then, with a speaking look, he added, “It involves a young lady.”
At those words the butler blinked. He stared at the vicar for a moment, and Ben was certain that the man had
heard the rumors about himself and Sophia.
“Of course, of course.” The butler said bowing. “Follow me.”
He ushered them down a long hall and into a study that had been painstakingly decorated to resemble the centuries old book rooms in aristocratic ancestral homes. “I’ll just let Mr. Morgan know he has visitors. May I bring you some refreshment?”
Maitland was already taking a cigar from the box on the desk and sniffing it. “Just get your master, man. We haven’t got all day.”
When the butler was finally gone, the three men dropped their poses of aristocratic impatience and moved to the window. They had no way of knowing where in the house Sophia was being held, but they would split up and search in different directions.
Ben had a feeling that Morgan would be just shameless enough to hold her in one of the more public rooms of the house. It was well known that his wife kept to her own apartments—staying as far away from her husband as she could—so there was no danger of anyone but servants coming upon the captive. And given that Morgan was known for demanding absolute loyalty from his staff, that wouldn’t make a difference.
“I’ll take this floor,” he said to the other two men as they peered out the window to the grounds beyond. This side of the house boasted a balcony for every floor. And the views of the sea were something that Morgan was fond of boasting about. The construction of the house in this way was beneficial to their search since it meant that they could see into the rooms on this side of the house, at least, from the balconies.
“I’ll go upstairs,” Maitland agreed.
“That leaves me with the floor below,” Kerr said with a nod.
“Be careful,” Ben warned the other two men as they headed for the door. “Morgan is a bully, but he’s a dangerous one. And we don’t know yet what Greaves’ full role in this is. Desperate men do desperate things.”
The cousins nodded, then slipped out into the hallway beyond.
Ben turned and, opening the French door leading out to the balcony, he looked in either direction before stepping out and creeping along the outer wall of the house. He moved past two empty rooms before he peeked into a brightly lit drawing room.
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