Captain Fawley strode into the sitting room, training one of his pistols on the young man who was sprawled on an armchair in front of the fire. He checked at the sight of Percy Lampton’s face. It was covered with fading bruises and crusted scabs. The once elegant fop was bundled up in a disreputably shabby dressing gown, a bowl of what smelled like punch at his elbow, a great deal of which, judging by his heightened complexion, he had already imbibed.
‘Come to finish me off, have you, Fawley?’ Lampton drawled, eyeing the pistol with weary, bloodshot eyes. ‘Don’t suppose you want to hear it, but in fact, you would be doing me a favour.’
‘It would be only what you deserve,’ Robert bit out coldly. ‘But I am no murderer. It is answers I want, not your blood.’
‘Just as well. Don’t think there’s all that much left,’ Percy said, his fingers tracing over the patchwork of bruises. ‘Though I don’t know what kind of answers you might want from me.’
‘I want to know who has taken my wife!’
‘Taken your wife? In what way?’ he sneered. ‘Cuckolded you already, has she? Not that anyone could blame her.’
The pistol went off, shattering the punch bowl and showering shards of glass everywhere.
‘Your aim is off,’ Percy taunted, flicking rum punch nonchalantly from one elegant hand, though his lips had gone white.
‘My aim is perfect,’ Robert replied, pulling the second pistol from his pocket. ‘The next ball will go straight through your black heart unless you tell me what I want to know.’
‘I have no idea who your wife may have taken as her lover, nor why you should suppose it was me,’ he protested. ‘I am no adulterer!’
‘No, just a seducer of innocent young girls!’
‘I have never seduced an innocent young girl!’
‘Have you forgotten Miss Hullworthy already, you rogue?’
‘I did not seduce her! I just—’
‘Led her to believe you would marry her. Toyed with her affections and broke her heart! You villain. Are there no depths to which you Lamptons will not sink? You would destroy a woman for sport—’
‘Now hang on a minute!’ Percy sat forward, his brow knotting angrily. ‘A little light flirtation is hardly a crime. I gave Miss Hullworthy no assurances. If she imagined I would ever propose marriage to a woman of her class, that was entirely her own fault! And as for accusing any Lampton of acting dishonourably towards a female …’
‘Your father did! Claiming I was not my father’s child was tantamount to branding my mother a whore! It destroyed her! Can you deny it?’
‘Th … that’s ancient history,’ Percy countered, his face darkening. ‘I had no part in that.’
‘But you are just like him! Claiming a woman is not fit to marry because of her background. No woman should be treated as you have treated Miss Hullworthy. Or as your father treated my mother. Women should be protected, cared for, not abused as though they are of no account!’
As he said it, Captain Fawley realised he meant every word. This was the creed by which he had grown up. When had he lost that belief? When had he begun to treat women with the cynical contempt that had made him ruthlessly exploit Deborah’s vulnerability so that he could exact revenge on his enemies?
It was not just his body that had been crippled at Salamanca, he suddenly saw. His mind had been warped too.
Shakily, he sank into the chair opposite Percy, his fingers clutching convulsively on the grip of his pistol. When he had first seen his face in the mirror in that makeshift hospital outside Salamanca, he had been appalled. As a youth, he had been handsome. Nobody could have looked at the mass of blistered, suppurating skin and felt anything but disgust.
In the long months of his recovery, he had seen the way women reacted to the sight of his broken body and scarred face. Where once they had smiled at him, flirted with him, now they twitched their skirts away in disgust.
So he had branded them all shallow, calculating bitches when the truth was, he hurt so much, whenever one of them wrinkled up her pretty little nose, he could scarcely breathe.
Driven by a sense of the injustice done him, he had used Deborah as ruthlessly as Lampton had treated Miss Hullworthy, as Lampton’s father had treated his mother. He looked at Percy Lampton with growing horror. He had allowed bitterness and resentment to eat away at his soul until now there was nothing to choose between them.
‘Somebody has kidnapped my wife,’ he said bleakly. ‘The note I received this evening, along with this …’ he laid the pistol across his knee as he drew the bloodstained glove from his pocket ‘… led me to assume it was connected to our long-standing feud. It demanded repayment of debts that somebody seems to think I ought to pay, though I suspect it was you that racked them up.’
‘Hincksey,’ said Percy, his eyes fixed on the bloodied glove. ‘My God, Fawley, I never meant it to come to this. I just thought he would send some of his men to dish out more of the same …’ he fingered his bruised face ‘… to you.’
‘You expect me to care what you think?’
Lampton’s eyes narrowed. ‘Look, I know your view of me is coloured by what my father did, but I am not like him. I would never deliberately put a woman in harm’s way.’
‘What of Miss Hullworthy? Or Lady Walton? Last year, you—’
‘I did not cause that French woman any real harm! I just saw the opportunity to make Walton a little uncomfortable. And after the way he did me out of Aunt Euphemia’s property, that was the least he deserved! And it wasn’t as if she lost all that much money at cards. Chicken feed, to a man of his wealth!
And as for Miss Hullworthy, she’ll soon get over me when someone with a title decides to drop her the handkerchief, you mark my words! But that …’ he pointed to the bloodied glove lying in Captain Fawley’s lap ‘… that is not something I would ever wish to happen to a lady.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s all Walton’s fault anyway that I fell into Hincksey’s clutches in the first place,’ he whined. ‘If he had not contested that will … if I’d had the money my father swore was coming to me …’
‘That was not how it was at all!’ Captain Fawley thundered. ‘It was your family that contested the will. Your aunt left everything to me!’
‘Well, she shouldn’t have done! You ain’t her nephew!’
‘And you think that is justification for telling your money-lender he could apply to me for restitution of debts you had run up?’
‘He was threatening to break my legs. Good God, man, have you not seen the state of my face? Haven’t been able to go anywhere for days. And I did not say he could apply to you. I just explained about the legacy—how I had thought it as good as mine, but that, in the end, you managed to snaffle it by marrying Miss Gillies.’
His eyes widened in horror. ‘My God, I gave him her name. I might as well have handed her to him on a plate. I shall never forgive myself if …’
Captain Fawley could see his rival’s remorse was genuine. While Percy Lampton was not the most honourable man he had ever known, the thought that any action of his might have exposed a lady to real danger clearly appalled him.
‘Help me find her, then.’
‘I shall.’ Lampton sat up, looking Robert straight in the eye. And while we are about it, I want to say that I deplore what my father did. Even—’ his face flushed ‘—the way he acted over my aunt’s will. I wanted the money, I don’t deny it. But not that much …’ He eyed Deborah’s bloodstained glove, his fists clenching. ‘If there were anything I could do to settle this stupid feud, once and for all, then believe me, I would do it.’
‘Would you, now?’ replied Robert, eyeing him with a cynical sneer. ‘Forgive me for finding that hard to believe.’
‘Try me!’ said Percy, leaping to his feet, showering the hearthrug with shards of crystal punch bowl. ‘I would do anything to atone for any harm that may have come to poor Miss Gillies through any careless word I may have spoken. Anything!’
Chapter Twelve
Deborah lost
all sense of time in that uniformly dark prison. Three times after the thin man had cut off a lock of her hair, the door opened, and the burly man who had hit her came in with a plate of bread and cheese, and a mug of what looked and smelled like ale.
The first time, though her throat still ached from when he had half-choked her, she had disdained drinking the ale. The prospect of having to use that bucket later on, and either have him empty it with a smirk, or leave it to add its pungency to the already nasty smell of the place, were both too horrible to contemplate. She had torn a strip off her petticoat, dipped it in the ale jug, and pressed it against her brow, though, hoping the alcohol might cleanse the cut, which simply would not stop bleeding. It only made her feel worse. Not only did it sting rather badly, but now she stank of ale too.
Not long after that, she began to scratch. And she discovered that the mattress, upon which she had been sitting, was hopping with fleas. Horrified, she leapt to her feet, and made for the furthest corner of her cell. She could not stand still for ever, though. The blood seemed to pool in her feet, making her feel faint. She tried pacing up and down, which helped a little, but she could not keep going indefinitely. Eventually, when exhaustion overcame her, she crouched in a corner, as far from the verminous mattress as she could.
When, at length, the door opened, and the burly man brought in fresh food and ale, she felt too weary, her legs too stiff and her back too sore to wish to reach for it. And the darkness, which had seeped into her soul, as dampness soaked into her clothes, made her wonder whether it was worth trying to keep her strength up anyway. She dared not hope Robert would part with any money to rescue her. It was the money he cared about, not her. But her captors had said ‘someone’ would pay. It was increasingly obvious that ‘someone’ would be her.
A shudder racked her body. She would never be strong enough to fight them. They would do what they wanted with her. They would make her suffer. Her only hope was that she might be too weak to survive her punishment for long. In a spurt of defiance, she kicked over the ale jug, and ground the stale piece of bread into the floor, the crumbs mingling with the mildewed mortar that held the bricks in place.
The last time her enemy had come in, she had felt too weak to even reach for the dishes he dropped on to the floor next to her. Her very frailty caused a brief flare of triumph to loosen the despair that had closed round her, like an iron fist, as the unremitting darkness had gone on, and on. It might not be so very much longer, she smiled to herself, before she was out of here.
She could hear her jailor moving about on the other side of her door. She heard another man join him. She heard the low murmur of male voices, a chair rasping across the brick floor, and then periods of quiet, interspersed with terse outbursts of profanities. From the occasional recognisable word that filtered in through the grille, she deduced that they were playing cards.
Then there came a clatter of booted feet on the cellar steps. The beginning of a shout was choked off into a grunt of pain, and then it sounded as though somebody was throwing furniture about.
There was a fight going on.
‘Deborah!’
She lifted her head from where she had been resting it on her bent knees.
‘Robert?’
She could hardly believe her ears.
‘Deborah, where are you?’
From some hidden inner reserve, she gathered the last of her strength and crawled to the door. ‘In here!’ she croaked hoarsely, straining upwards to try and reach the grille. ‘Robert!’ Her voice was rusty from disuse. He would never be able to hear her. In desperation, she raised her fists, and pounded ineffectually against the stout door.
She heard the sound of the bolts being drawn; before she could get out of the way, the door swung inwards, pushing her aside so that she sprawled inelegantly in the middle of the floor.
And Robert stood there, a dark silhouette against the dim light from the outer cellar.
Her arms shook with the effort it took to raise herself to a sitting position. She felt as though she had expended the last of her strength in making him hear her. But he just stood there, in stony silence, and somehow she knew she was going to have to get up on her own.
He did not want to be here. He could not have made it more obvious if he had shouted it. The very way he drew to one side, as she finally managed to stagger towards the open door, spoke of his reluctance to so much as touch her.
But he had come. She would live.
And that knowledge gave her the strength to reach the doorway, where she leaned for a moment or two, her head spinning.
In the outer room four men were fighting like demons. Her jaw dropped at recognising one of them was the Marquis of Lensborough. The first time she had met him, she had thought he was an ugly customer, and he certainly had an ugly expression on his face now. But it was magnificent to behold, for the man he was pounding, as though he were a punch bag in a boxing school, was the man who had taken such pleasure in hurting her.
Her hand flew to her mouth as the other villain, the one who had been driving the cab, raised a chair to smash over her other rescuer’s head. To her shock, she recognised the gleaming golden brown hair of the Earl of Walton. But the Earl surprised both her and his assailant with the agility of his next manoeuvre. He sprang aside, dodging the chair and simultaneously raising his knee to jam it into his assailant’s stomach. As the cab driver doubled over, the chair somehow ended up in the Earl’s capable hands. He brought it smashing down over the kidnapper’s head, a split second after the Marquis dealt a massive knockout punch to the burly villain’s jaw.
The kidnappers lay sprawled amongst the smashed furniture. The Earl and the Marquis stood there panting, then grinned at each other like a pair of mischievous schoolboys as they reached over the bodies to shake one another’s hands.
‘This way,’ said Robert, extending his arm to indicate a stairway, snaking up out of the cellar. ‘And be quick about it.’
Flinching at the curtness of his tone, Deborah tottered towards the stairs. She had not gone more than a few steps, before the Marquis took one arm, the Earl her other, and they half-dragged, half-carried her up the stairs, while Robert followed behind. The four of them emerged into a dank courtyard in which stood a plain black cab. Linney was sitting on the box, a brace of pistols sweeping the few people who dared to poke their noses out of the doorways or windows.
‘How did you find me?’ asked Deborah, once they had all got into the cab. ‘Did you have to pay a ransom? That man said you owed him money—’
‘Lampton owed him money,’ said Robert curtly as the Earl and the Marquis settled on the seats opposite them. And it was Lampton who told me where I might find you.’
The coach set off with a jolt that flung Deborah back into the cushions. Robert steadied her, then moved away swiftly. So swiftly that she had to turn her head away from him to hide her hurt.
‘Your man may be handy to have about in a tight spot, but he is no coachman,’ observed the Marquis, grabbing hold of the strap.
‘You are a handy man to have in a tight spot too,’ said Deborah, turning wide eyes upon his saturnine features. ‘I must thank you for what you have done today. Both of you,’ she added, addressing the Earl.
‘I am merely returning a favour Captain Fawley did, not so very long ago, for my own wife,’ the Marquis replied coolly.
‘Think nothing of it,’ added the Earl. Then, turning to Robert, he drawled, ‘I had no idea taking you into my home would provide me with such adventures.’
They kept up a constant barrage of inane observations, reminding her again of a pair of naughty schoolboys who had just got away with some prank. It didn’t take her long to work out that much of the badinage was intended to distract her, for which she was grateful. The last thing she wanted to do was break down in front of two such aristocratic males and, judging from the way neither of them could quite meet her eye, the sight of a female in tears would make them extremely uncomfortable too. And she had felt
very inclined to burst into tears when the cab had set off, signalling her ordeal was at an end.
The Earl and the Marquis helped her out of the cab when it stopped in an alley at the back of Walton House. Contrary to her expectations, there was a flight of steps leading to Robert’s back door, which they reached by crossing a paved yard. There was even a sign on the door, bearing his name, and a doorknocker in the shape of a lion’s head, as though this were a private, rented apartment, rather than an integral part of Walton House.
The Countess was waiting for them. The moment she saw them, she leapt to her feet, her eyes widening in horror at Deborah’s appearance. Her next action was to snatch up a blanket from the sofa on which she had been sitting, hurry to her side, and drape it round her, shooting just one reproachful look at Robert as she did so.
‘Nobody must see her looking like this,’ she exclaimed. ‘What were you thinking?’
‘Of getting her out of that place, primarily,’ Robert snapped back. ‘But at least I took the precaution of smuggling her in by the back door. Nobody knows about this dreadful business,’ he said to Deborah. ‘We have managed to hush it up. I was sure you would not want to distress your mother. So whenever enquiries were made as to your whereabouts, I said either you were indisposed, or out shopping, depending on who was doing the asking. Now I suggest you go upstairs with Lady Walton, who will see to your immediate needs.’
It was as if he could not wait to be rid of her, she thought, glancing at his set features.
Strangely, her earlier desire to weep had frozen solid under the blast of his coldness. She could feel it, a tangible presence, just under her breastbone, as though she had swallowed a lump of ice. It was amazing, she reflected as Lady Walton led her up the stairs, just how much strength pride could lend to legs that she had thought too weak to carry her one step further.
‘You will feel better for a bath and something to eat,’ said the Countess, ushering her into her pretty, feminine sitting room.
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