Regency Innocents

by Annie Burrows

  A sleepy footman unbolted the front door for her, asking if she needed his escort.

  ‘No, thank you. I plan to take a cab straight to my mother’s. Oh, see! There is one just at the corner.’

  Having given her address to the driver, she climbed inside, and sank gratefully on to the cushions. She hoped it was not too early to be making such a call. She was sure her mother would not mind getting up. Or perhaps she would just go straight up to her mother’s room and speak to her there. What she had to relate was not for anyone else’s ears.

  She wondered that she had not yet felt the urge to cry. She knew she loved Robert more than life itself. Yet, since the moment she had seen Susannah in his arms, she had felt strangely frozen.

  She had heard people talking about being numb with grief. She supposed that was why she was outwardly maintaining an appearance of calm, whilst inside she felt so terribly cold. She had been just like this after her father had died, mechanically seeing to all the necessary details. It had only been after the funeral was over, when she had been folding away one of his coats, and caught his dear, familiar scent lingering about the cloth, that it had hit her that she would never see him again. That was when the tears had begun to flow.

  She would mourn Robert when this chilling numbness wore off, she expected. Wearily, she turned to look out of the window. And sat up with a sharp frown upon seeing the cab was passing through a shabby street she was sure she had never been down before.

  She pulled the window down, and shouted up to the driver, ‘Excuse me, I think you may have mistook my direction. I asked you to take me to Half Moon Street.’

  The driver pulled the cab to a halt at once. Another man, one who had been sitting on the box with the driver, got down, and came to the window from which she was leaning.

  Instead of apologising for his error, to Deborah’s complete astonishment, he opened the cab door.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she squeaked as he pushed her roughly back into her seat, and got in, sitting down opposite her.

  ‘Making sure you don’t slip through our fingers,’ he said laconically.

  ‘Slip through … what are you saying?’ Her heart began to pound against her breastbone. ‘Stop this cab and let me out at once!’ she demanded, in as authoritative tone as she could muster. ‘Or you will be sorry!’

  ‘Threats, is it, now?’ He grinned. ‘No, you should not be making any threats to me, Mrs Fawley. What you should be doing is begging for mercy.’

  The dim hope that he must have mistaken her for someone else fled when he addressed her by name. Nevertheless, she put on a brave face, forcing herself to look directly into his puffy eyes, as she said, ‘Begging for mercy? Oh, no. You are the one who should beg my forgiveness for being so ill mannered as to try to frighten me.’

  The man chuckled as he dealt her an open-handed slap across the face. She could not believe it. He seemed to have hardly put any effort into the blow at all, and yet it had sent her reeling into the corner of the carriage. She pulled herself upright, her hand instinctively going to her stinging lip. The man’s grin broadened, as though well pleased with his little demonstration of brute strength.

  ‘That was just a hint, Mrs Fawley, to show you we mean business. If you have any sense, you won’t try to argue with me again. Just behave yourself, and there’ll be no need to give you another lesson, see?’

  He spoke so calmly that Deborah could hardly believe he had just hit her. But then she looked down at her glove and saw a red stain upon it. The force of his blow had split her lip. The feeling of wetness on her chin was her own blood, trickling from the stinging wound.

  The disbelief on her face seemed to amuse her captor, for he chuckled, before folding his arms across his chest and settling down to watch her with lazy contempt.

  He thought he had cowed her. Well, she would show him how wrong he was. If he thought she was so feeble-spirited that she would meekly let him carry her off without putting up a struggle, he was fair and far out!

  As soon as the cab stopped, and her captor leaned forward to open the door, Deborah sprang to the opposite door, flung it open and dived out into the street. She had no idea where she was, but if she ran, shouting for help, someone was bound to come to her aid.

  Her feet had barely hit the muddy surface, when a large hand descended on her shoulder. The man who had hit her had lunged through the coach the moment she had leapt out and grabbed for her.

  ‘Help!’ cried Deborah, struggling against his grip. She felt her coat rip along the shoulder seam, as she pulled from him with all her might. But then the driver, about whom she had forgotten, came to his partner’s aid, jumping down from the box and landing in the street before her. With a scowl, he put his open, gloved hand against her face, and shoved her, sending her sprawling backwards into the coach, where she landed on the floor at the other man’s feet.

  Her skirt tore as he dragged her, kicking and struggling, through the carriage and out the other side, where she landed on all fours in the mud. He grabbed the collar of her coat, yanking her roughly to her feet and, not content with having recaptured her, he swung her round, smashing her face into the side of the cab. She reeled back from the explosion of pain, half-stunned. As her knees buckled, her assailant grasped her round the waist and swung her over his shoulder, as though she weighed no more than a sack of hops.

  A series of impressions flitted across Deborah’s dazed mind. A weary-looking woman, her eyes sliding away as though the sight of a kidnap in broad daylight was none of her business. Blood dripping down the back of the man’s coat from her own face and splashing on to a flight of rough-hewn steps. Increasing darkness, and with it a strong smell of damp as her captor carried her ever deeper into his lair.

  Finally, he stooped to pass through a low arch, then dropped her on to a mattress stuffed with straw. He stood looking down at her prostrate form with complete composure, while her dazed state crystallized into ice-cold fear.

  ‘I warned you to mind your manners,’ her captor said coolly. He squatted down on his haunches beside her bed. ‘You ain’t going to make any more trouble now, are you, pretty lady?’ For good measure, he laid one meaty paw upon her ankle, running his hand under her skirts a way.

  Deborah had thought she was levelheaded enough to cope with anything. But the slide of that man’s hand filled her with such sick loathing, she couldn’t prevent herself from uttering a shriek of terror and drawing her leg away. She was completely in his power. The violence he had used to subdue her had been meant as a demonstration of what she might expect should she offer any further resistance. He could do anything to her, and there was nobody who would stop him.

  She felt as though she had stumbled into another world. A world where the rules that had governed her sheltered existence until that point no longer applied. In this world, men could strike women in the street, and anyone who saw it would pretend they had not, lest they suffer the same fate.

  ‘Pity, almost, you’ve broke so soon,’ he mused. ‘I would have enjoyed making you mind me.’ He reached out, as though intending to take hold of her again. And Deborah scuttled backwards along the bed until she was curled into a ball, pressed up against the wall. He leaned over her, his eyes boring into hers as he took firm hold of her arm. When he snapped the strings of her reticule, as he pulled it from her wrist, she almost fainted with relief. He tore it open, tipping the contents on to the rough brick floor.

  ‘You don’t carry much money for a woman as has married such a wealthy man,’ he complained as he picked out the coins from amongst her clutter of personal effects. ‘Still, it will pay for the cab fare, and your board for as long as you’re with us.’

  With that, he left the room, bolting the door behind him.

  She was ashamed to find she was shaking like a leaf, little whimpers of distress escaping her lips with every ragged breath. She had not thought she was a coward, but that man’s casual attitude to violence, his clear enjoyment of inflicting injury on
her, had been inhuman. He had even indicated he wanted her to resist, so that he would have an excuse to hurt her even more. What kind of a monster was he?

  And why had these men taken her? She simply could not understand why anyone should want to kidnap her. Though she was definitely their intended victim. They had called her by name.

  Her face and hair felt sticky, her left eyebrow throbbing from where her kidnapper had slammed her face against the coach door. She knew she was bleeding, but had no way of attending to her hurt, other than pressing her already-stained glove to the cut, hoping pressure might stem the flow. There was nothing in her prison, save the mattress she cowered on and a bucket by the door, which she assumed was for her convenience.

  The room itself she guessed must be a part of a cellar, since it was so dark. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she saw that it was shaped in the form of an arch, made of brick. There was no window, and what little light there was filtered in through a small grille set into the stout oak door, which she had heard her captor bolt on the outside.

  She did not know how long she crouched there. It seemed like a very long time, yet it was not long enough for her to stop shaking. But at length she heard footsteps approaching, and the sound of a chair scraping back. Was her captor sitting on the other side of the door then, guarding her? Though why should he, when there was no way she could escape such a secure prison?

  She heard the bolts grate and then the door swung open.

  She found she was panting with renewed fear. Why had they opened the door? What new cruelty did they mean to inflict on her? She felt so vulnerable, huddled on the floor, that she pushed herself shakily to her feet, leaning against the wall when her legs proved to have the consistency of jelly on a summer’s day.

  A neatly dressed, thin man walked in, and stood regarding her with his head tilted to one side for several minutes.

  ‘I expect, Mrs Fawley,’ he said eventually, ‘you are wondering why I have had you brought here?’

  She nodded, her mouth so dry with fear she was incapable of speech.

  ‘I need to get your husband’s attention. He owes me, you see, and needs to understand he must pay me back.’

  ‘R … Robert does not have any debts!’

  ‘Well, now, that is where we have to differ. When he cheated a man who does owe me, leaving him without the means to repay me, that man’s debts became his.’

  Robert would not cheat anyone!

  The only person who could even come close to making such an accusation against him would be … Percy Lampton.

  Had the fool borrowed against his expectations?

  From this man?

  She looked upon the thin man with dawning comprehension. Lampton had no means of repaying anyone anything now. Robert had all the money he had assumed would be his.

  ‘I see you know exactly what I mean,’ the man sneered. ‘So glad you have dropped the pretence of innocence. People like you need to learn you cannot get away with cheating men like me. You must pay. One way or another,’ he said, taking a step towards her, ‘I always make ‘em pay.’

  As he moved, she saw the dull gleam of a knife blade in his hand.

  ‘No!’ she cried, feeling the blood draining from her face.

  ‘I would advise you to hold still, Mrs Fawley, if you don’t want to get hurt any further,’ the thin man said menacingly. ‘It will all be over before you know it.’

  Mad panic gripped her. She darted towards the open door, running full tilt into the burly man, who appeared out of nowhere. He flung her back into the cell so forcefully that the back of her head cracked against the rough brickwork on the wall opposite the door. He stalked in after her, closing one meaty great hand round her throat, whilst deftly untying the ribbons of her bonnet with the other. Deborah’s senses swam. The stench of him filled her nostrils, choking her as effectively as the stranglehold he had round her neck. Spots danced before her eyes while pain blossomed and spread its tentacles from the initial point of impact at the back of her head. She only dimly registered him tossing her bonnet aside, for she had seen the thin man approaching, the knife stretched out towards her.

  With one swift flick, he cut off a lock of her hair, the burly man left off his stranglehold, and Deborah fell to her knees on the floor between them.

  ‘Tsk, tsk.’ The thin man shook his head at her. ‘Such a lot of fuss over one lock of hair. Anyone would think we meant to murder you.’

  As she dragged in a painful breath through her bruised throat, she knew that was exactly what they had meant her to think. They wanted to keep her in a state of terrified submission. They both laughed mockingly as she cowered on the floor at her feet. And she felt a fresh wave of humiliation that they were succeeding so well. She was terrified.

  ‘Now give me your hand,’ the thin man ordered.

  Well beyond the point of daring to display any defiance, Deborah held up her hand. At a nod from his master, the burly man knelt on the floor beside her, took her outstretched hand between his and slowly unbuttoned her glove. He then stroked it from her hand, finger by finger, his gloating, puffy eyes never leaving her face.

  She felt violated.

  She did not stop shivering, her stomach heaving, until long after the door had been shut on her again, leaving her in darkness.

  But she would not cry. The burly man was out there, sitting on a chair, guarding her. He would hear if she began to cry. She would not give him the satisfaction!

  It was quite late in the evening when Robert received the packet. He was in no mood to receive any kind of post. It was probably a sample from a tailor, he thought moodily. He was past caring about such trivialities, though once the prospect of having silk shirts and natty waistcoats had filled him with pleasurable anticipation.

  ‘Here, deal with this, would you?’ he said, tossing it to Linney.

  Deborah had shunned him last night. She had finally given up the pretence she could bear sharing a bed with him. And this morning, before the rest of the household had begun to stir, she had run off to her mother’s house. She had not returned since, not even to keep the various social engagements she had previously arranged.

  ‘Captain!’

  The tone of Linney’s voice had him turning from the sideboard where he was pouring himself a brandy.

  Linney’s face was white.

  ‘What is it?’ Robert demanded sharply.

  In reply, the man held out the contents of the package. A bloodstained glove and a lock of dark hair. He recognised that glove. He knew that hair.

  ‘Deborah!’

  In two strides he was taking the note that had come in the package from Linney’s hand: You stole from my client. I reckon his debts now belong to you, along with all the rest you took from him. Settle them if you want to see your wife again.

  There was no signature on the letter, and no direction on the packet.

  He went cold inside. How could he pay a ransom, when he did not know who to pay it to?

  ‘This will be the first of a series of notes, I expect,’ said Linney darkly as Robert sank to the sofa, Deborah’s bloodstained glove lying limply on his open palm. ‘This was just to get your attention. He’ll send instructions as to how to pay, and how much, once he’s let you stew a while.’

  ‘I cannot!’ Robert lurched unsteadily to his feet. ‘I cannot sit here and wait for further messages, while Deborah may be suffering God alone knows what!’ He looked at the bloodstained glove, his cheeks going chalk white. ‘They have already hurt her.’

  ‘Might just have been done for effect. Might not be her blood, sir.’

  ‘By heaven, it had better not be.’ His expression hardened. ‘This is Lampton’s doing. There is no one else that could accuse me of stealing from him. Though I had every right to claim that inheritance! It is his lying tongue that has exposed Deborah to danger! It must be!’

  ‘Sir, Captain sir, just think for a minute—’

  ‘No, I’ve done with thinking, and behaving and prete
nding to be a gentleman! I am a soldier. And I will take a soldier’s solution.’

  Linney swore under his breath as his master pulled open the sideboard drawers and pulled out a pair of heavy military pistols.

  While he clumsily loaded them, Linney fetched a wicked-looking blade, which he hid under the folds of his coat. He helped his master into his old army greatcoat, clapped a battered forage cap upon his head, then both men plunged out into the night, side by side.

  The man who opened the doors of Lampton’s rooms in Albany Chambers soon lost the haughty expression he habitually wore when denying access to unwelcome visitors. But then, nobody had ever requested entrance at gunpoint before.

  ‘Is your master in?’ said the scar-faced ruffian on the doorstep. ‘Don’t tell me any lies now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,’ he replied, nervously swallowing as he caught sight of a second, broad-shouldered man standing on the step, his back to the building as he scanned the street.

  ‘Show me to him, then!’

  Any hope the valet had of summoning assistance for his master, who he was convinced was about to be murdered, faded when the second intruder bounded up the steps, slammed the front door behind him, and bore down upon him with grim purpose.

  ‘He … he’s in there,’ said the valet, turning white as he indicated the sitting-room door. He could not stand the sight of blood. It had been bad enough the last time, but those men had not used pistols. He really would have to think about handing in his notice. Staving off criminals was not part of his job description. Though after tonight, he would probably not have a job any longer. Resentment swelled his emaciated chest. What kind of person would employ a valet whose former master had been brutally murdered? Only the kind who sought notoriety. He had no wish to work for that sort of person. With an affronted sniff, he sat down on a settle in the narrow hall, glaring waspishly up at the thickset man who stood, arms folded, with his back to the front door.