by Brenda Hiatt
"You say he was anxious to have things settled?" She'd made it clear to Lord Marcus that he wouldn't be required to marry her after all. What could he be thinking? Nor had she received the impression that he was in a position to be making generous settlements. Rather the opposite, in fact.
"Yes, yes, of course. Why do you look so surprised? I told you he was eager for the match, did I not?"
"You told me that. He did not. And you knew full well—you both knew— that I have no desire to marry him. I don't understand either of you."
The Captain laid down his fork and covered her hand with his own enormous one. "Now, Quinnling, pray do not fret. The more I see of Lord Marcus, the more I like him. He will make you an excellent husband, truly he will. You'll see I was right, in time."
Though he spoke soothingly, there was a hint of steel underlying her father's voice that told her he would brook no argument on the matter. He honestly seemed to believe he was doing the right thing for her—or for the business, at any rate. Abruptly, Quinn pushed back her chair.
"I suppose time will tell, then. But now, I pray you will excuse me, Papa. I have correspondence to attend to, then a visit or two to pay, and I must hurry if I am to be finished before Lady Claridge's proposed shopping expedition."
Her father quirked an eyebrow suspiciously. "Visits? Visits to whom? You are not to go out alone again, Quinn."
"Alone? Of course not." She managed to trill a laugh, which unfortunately seemed to deepen her father's suspicion. Struck by sudden inspiration, she added, "Why, Lord Marcus is to accompany me. I am surprised he did not mention it to you this morning."
At once the Captain relaxed. "He was rather distracted —that is, he probably assumed I already knew. Well, well, that will be fine, then. You go on upstairs and get yourself ready. Give Lord Marcus my regards when he returns. I am due at the Exchange myself, so must hurry off to Threadneedle Street."
Quinn escaped upstairs, her heart pounding. What luck that her father was leaving again! Now her path was clear —and she'd best take it while she could. She might not get another chance.
Dismissing her maid, she pulled out the valise she had packed last night. She waited until she heard her father leave the house, then quietly left her room, taking the servants' stairs at the rear of the house to the ground floor. A housemaid was dusting the mantelpiece in the library, but she was able to tiptoe past to the open back door without being noticed.
Once outside, she made her way through the mews and out to the street. A few stableboys stared as she passed, but she didn't care, as they were unlikely to raise any alarm. She set off at a brisk walk, waiting until she was well away from Mount Street to hail a passing hackney. Climbing inside, she directed the driver to take her to the London Docks at Wapping.
Looking out of the hackney window as they passed the Tower and continued on to the East End of London, Quinn began to have her first misgivings about her plan. The area around the docks seemed dirtier and more crowded than she remembered, somehow.
"This be the London Dock, ma'am," the jarvey called down through the trap door in the roof of the cab as he pulled to a halt by a hulking warehouse. "Someone meeting you here?"
"Ah, yes," she lied, afraid the man might refuse to leave her otherwise. "Thank you." She paid her fare and allowed him to help her to the slick pavement, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the odors assailing it.
"Want me to wait till he gets here?" The driver, a kindly looking older man, seemed genuinely concerned.
"No, but thank you. I'm to meet him . . . inside this warehouse. I'm sure he's here already." Quinn turned and walked toward the indicated building, refusing to look back until she heard the hackney coach drive away.
Only then did she realize how foolish it was to let the jarvey leave. What if she could not get passage for days? But surely she could hail another hackney if necessary —even if none were in sight at the moment.
Veering away from the warehouse, she headed for the docks, scanning the berthed ships for one that might bear her home. The welter of bobbing masts made it difficult to focus, but she spotted a packet off to the right flying an American flag. She would inquire of its captain, she decided, heading that way.
A group of sailors approached her, jostling her rudely as they passed on their way into Town. "Hoy there, missie!" one called. "Come wi' us and we'll make it worth your time."
Quinn averted her eyes and hurried on, acutely conscious of how out of place she was here, in her pale yellow gown with its rows of flounces. Glancing nervously about, she noticed that the few women she could see were dressed in dingy workdresses, helping the men and boys who were carrying cargo to and from the ships— except for one.
Lounging under a tavern sign that declared it the Scarlet Hawk, a woman in a red, low-cut dress engaged the group of sailors in raucous conversation. As Quinn watched, horrified, the woman lifted her skirts above the knee, presumably to show off her fine legs. With a chorus of cheers, the sailors followed her inside.
Hastily, Quinn looked away before anyone noticed her watching and quickened her pace.
"'Ere now!" exclaimed a rough voice.
She turned too late, bumping headlong into a burly man who grabbed her by the shoulders to steady her. "I . . . I beg your pardon, sir," she stammered, and tried to back away.
To her dismay, he did not release his grip on her shoulders, but paused to examine her. "Now, what 'ave we 'ere, then? I ain't seen you about 'ere before, missie. New, are ye?"
He was dressed like a gentleman in coat, waistcoat and breeches that might once have been well-tailored and expensive, but which were now overdue for a cleaning. A dirty red cloth was knotted about his neck in lieu of a cravat.
"No! That is, I am here to speak to the captain of that ship." She pointed toward the American flag, which now seemed impossibly far away.
"A choosy one, are ye? Special for the captains? Too bad for them I saw ye first." He grinned, revealing an inadequate number of yellowing teeth.
Quinn tried to pull away from him, but he only tightened his grip. "You don't understand." She tried to sound commanding, as her father might, but could not control the quaver in her voice. "I am to set sail on that ship as a paying passenger."
The man's eyes only brightened further, and she realized that had been a stupid thing to say. "Paying, are ye? Well, let's see yer purse, then." Before she could prevent him, he snatched the reticule dangling from her wrist, breaking the strings.
"No!" she cried. "Stop it, you thief!"
Anger giving her sudden strength, she swung her valise up toward his head, but he was too quick for her. Sliding one hand from her shoulder to her arm, he used the other, the one holding her reticule, to deflect the blow and send the valise flying, to land in the mud several yards away.
"Now, missie, none o' that," he admonished, though without heat. If anything, he seemed amused by her show of resistance. "Mick! To me! I need a bit of assistance 'ere," he called to another grubby man lounging by the side of the Scarlet Hawk.
Wildly, Quinn looked around for anyone who might be able to help her, but all she saw were dock workers going about their business. Another knot of sailors wandered far down the docks, and a couple of street urchins shoved each other in a friendly altercation, all seemingly blind to her situation. Why, why had she told the hackney driver to leave?
"Looks like ye've copped a prime 'un, Tom," said the aforementioned Mick, sauntering over. Casually, he imprisoned both of Quinn's arms behind her in a powerful grip, freeing his confederate to empty her reticule. "Gor! Look at all that!"
In despair, Quinn watched as Tom pocketed the money for her passage —some sixty pounds. "Please!" She tried again. "I need that to get home to America."
Both men laughed. "And we need it to get through the next month or two," said Mick. "You'll bring us even more, though, unless I miss my guess."
"What do you mean?" she asked, though she was afraid she already knew. Hadn't her father and Lord Marcus both
warned her? Why hadn't she listened?
"An innocent, eh?" said her original captor with a chuckle. "That's all to the good, wouldn't ye say, Mick?"
"Aye. Sally pays extra for virgins. Let's take her in and start our dickering."
Though Quinn struggled desperately, her strength was no match for Mick's. And even if she were to break free, Tom was there to seize her again. In moments they had forced her through the entrance of the Scarlet Hawk, into a boisterous taproom lit only by two windows grimed with the smoke that hung heavy in the air. Quinn coughed.
"You there! Bill! We got summat for Sally. She upstairs?" Mick called to a burly man behind the bar.
Before he could respond, Quinn shouted out to the assembled patrons, "Please! Won't someone here help me? These men are holding me against my will!" Surely someone in all this crowd must have a modicum of decency!
But though many of them stared at her with varying degrees of interest, none came forward to help. One tall, thin lad who looked vaguely familiar stared longer than the others, giving her a moment's hope, but then he frowned and disappeared through a rear doorway. "Someone! Please!" she cried again.
Mick shook her roughly. "Enough o' that. What's that, Bill?"
"I said Sally's upstairs. You can take the wench up to her."
Quinn had never felt so helpless or humiliated in her life, as her captors dragged her through that sea of stares to the steps on the opposite side of the room. It was almost a relief when they reached the landing and she was no longer exposed to all of those taunting eyes.
But now new anxieties assailed her. The upper passage was dimly lit by a pair of guttering candles in a wall sconce. From a closed door on her right came gasps and moans of a most disturbing nature. Before she could even speculate at what might be occurring within, a buxom woman in a too-tight gown of bright pink satin emerged from another door further along the passage.
"What's all the commotion, then? I heard shouting downstairs." The woman confronted them, hands on plump hips, her improbably black hair spilling over her bare shoulders to partially conceal her ample cleavage with fat ringlets.
"Look what we brung ye, Sally," said Tom triumphantly, as Mick thrust Quinn forward. "Worth a nice sum, don't ye think?"
The woman's eyes narrowed speculatively as she surveyed Quinn from head to toe. "A bit young," she commented.
Quinn opened her mouth to protest as she always did when people assumed she was younger than her years, then closed it, hoping the misconception might work to her advantage.
But then Mick said, "Garn! You know that only ups the price. Ain't she a pretty piece?"
Sally took her time answering, circling around to examine Quinn closely in the wavering candlelight. "Pretty enough, I suppose. What are you two cheats wanting for her?"
"Cheats! Well, I like that!" exclaimed Tom. "Only a fair price, as always, Sally."
Quinn gasped with indignation —and horror. "I am no piece of property to be bought or sold! Please, ma'am, if you'll see me returned to my father—a ship owner and captain —I'll make certain you are well rewarded."
"Ship captain?" Sally frowned at the two men. "That increases my risk, if it's true."
"It is true, I swear it!" said Quinn eagerly. "You can ask about on the docks. My father is Captain Palmer Peverill."
But Sally didn't so much as glance at her. "Two pounds off the price for the extra risk," she said to the men. "I'll give you thirty-eight for her, and another half-crown for the dress."
"Thirty-eight! You'll have twice that out of her in a week," Mick protested.
They fell to dickering then, while Quinn continued to struggle, scarlet with humiliation. To think she'd been running away because she objected to being "sold." A marriage settlement was nothing to this!
The men pointed out her youth, health and fine teeth, while Sally countered that the chance of rescue or escape threatened her profit. When they finally settled on forty-two pounds, ten shillings, Tom clasped Sally's plump hand to seal the bargain.
"Bring her in here, then." Sally indicated the room she had just vacated. "It has a strong lock, and a grate on the window."
Mick shoved Quinn into the small, heavily perfumed chamber, then stood guard at the door while Sally counted out their money. Then, tipping his cap at Quinn with an unpleasant smile, he and Tom left. Quinn took a step toward the door but Sally quickly shut and locked it, then put her back against it, to face her.
"You needn't look so scared, dearie. I'll make sure your first isn't too rough." Her words and tone were no doubt intended to be reassuring, but had quite the opposite effect.
"You don't understand," Quinn pleaded, tears of anger and hopelessness tightening her throat. "I don't belong here. My . . . my father will come looking for me."
"Then we'll have to make you a mite less recognizable, won't we?" said Sally reasonably. "First, that frock. Those louts had no idea, but it's worth everything I paid them, if we don't sully it. Off with it, now."
"Wh . . . what?" Quinn backed away from the woman, her arms instinctively coming up to shield her breasts.
"Come on, then. You don't want me to call Bill up from the bar to help, do you? He'd be only too happy, I know."
Remembering the burly bartender, Quinn shuddered. "But what shall I wear instead?" she asked, still trying to delay what was beginning to appear inevitable. She refused to think further ahead than a change of clothing.
"This'll do, I think." Sally held up a garish red and black striped dress. "Should suit your coloring, too."
Quinn stared at the hideous garment in horror, but when Sally made an impatient movement as though to call for help, she reluctantly agreed, and with trembling fingers began to undo the fastenings of her gown.
* * *
"With me? Why would they think Miss Peverill is with me?" Marcus asked the Claridge-liveried footman in bewilderment.
The man shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other on the top step outside Marcus's front door. "I don't rightly know, my lord. I was told to come here and enquire for her. Seems she's late for an appointment to go shopping with Lady Constance."
"And she is presumed to be here? Or are they merely checking every possiblity?" It appeared his reluctant bride-to-be had escaped her relatives' care— again. Marcus wasn't sure whether to be worried or amused.
The footman furrowed his brow. "Captain Peverill said she was out driving with you, my lord. I don't think he expected me to find you home, but wanted me to leave word for her to return at once, as she is late. Lady Claridge is in a fair fury, she is."
"Thank you, my good man. You may consider your message delivered. Should I see Miss Peverill, I will convey it at once."
With a nod and bow, the footman departed. Marcus closed the door slowly, thinking hard. What sort of scrape might Miss Peverill be getting herself into this time? And why?
Surely, her father wouldn't have told her the details of the settlements they'd agreed upon? If she discovered what an enormous sum Captain Peverill had offered as dowry, she might well believe that Marcus was only marrying her for her fortune. In which case—
"Who was that?" Lord Peter asked from the stairs, interrupting his thoughts.
"No one," replied Marcus automatically. Then, concern overcoming reticence, he replied, "Actually, it was a footman asking for Miss Peverill. It seems she has disappeared."
Peter joined him by the door. "Disappeared? Run away, do you mean?"
"No one seems certain, but that would be my guess." He thought back over his conversation with her yesterday. Would she actually be so foolish--? "I need to go out," he said abruptly.
"Yes, you must bring her back, of course. Do you know where to find her? If you'll give me a moment to dress, I'll join you."
Marcus shook his head. He knew from long experience that Peter could no more dress in a moment than he could fly. "You can follow me, if you like. I'm headed for the docks."
"Very well. The docks are no place for her—or you—to be
wandering alone."
"I can handle myself." He stifled his irritation at Peter's protectiveness.
"Of course," Peter replied, clearly unconvinced. "Go on, then. I'll follow as soon as I may. Which docks?"
"Captain Peverill mentioned that his own ships use the new London Docks, so I'll start there." Now that he'd made up his mind, he was anxious to be away.
Peter seemed to sense it, so caused no further delay, but went back upstairs to change out of his dressing gown. Marcus called for his horse, as it would be faster than the carriage. If he found Quinn— rather, Miss Peverill —he could always hire a hackney to carry them back to Mayfair.
Five minutes later he was headed east, hoping against hope that his guess had been wrong.
CHAPTER 6
Marcus clattered along the cobbles of East Smithfield Street, already beginning to feel more than a bit foolish about his sudden burst of heroics. Most likely the girl was safe at home by now, or visiting with some female friend. Besides, how was he to search the docks for her without publicizing her name?
He had to try, however. If Miss Peverill were really impulsive enough to attempt sailing on her own, there was no knowing what sort of trouble she might be courting. She deserved it, of course, but that didn't mean he was capable of leaving her to her fate. In fact, the idea of Quinn in danger constricted his vitals in a most disturbing manner. He rode faster.
Entering the London Docks district, he first surveyed the ships at anchor, then the surrounding streets and buildings. Where to begin? With a ship bound for America, presumably. Two of those anchored appeared to be flying American flags, but that was no guarantee that country would be their next port of call. Still, it was a place to start.
Dismounting, he tied his horse at the edge of the wharf nearest one of the American ships and hurried down the quay to ask questions of its crewmen. As he'd feared, the ship was bound for Spain, then points south, before it would head back to its home port of New York —nor were any passengers booked for its departure a week hence.