by Joan Smith
Then she turned to Vanessa, saying, "I should have got my netting out of the carriage. Is there anything you require?" She stopped suddenly, frowning. "Why, we never packed your trunk! We left it at the coaching house. Fancy neither of us thinking of it."
Vanessa's mouth flew open in guilty dismay. "I—I did leave my trunk on the coach," she said, "but it is no matter. There is nothing of any importance in it. Only my clothing. My aunt will have it picked up for me in London."
"The stage stops at Stephen's Hotel, on Bond Street, if I am not mistaken?"
"Yes," Vanessa answered, quite at random, for she had not determined this point in her reading of the schedule.
“What time does it arrive?''
"At four. I can easily do without my things till then," she said airily. They proceeded up the walk to a rickety stoop and dilapidated door.
"Mercy, how some folks live," Mrs. Euston complained. "One would never guess to look at this hovel that Reginald Euston has the better part of two hundred thousand in the funds. Skint. He is my late husband's brother, a retired naval man, but you must not be surprised if he looks more like a clod-crusher. He has let himself go." This inconsequential chatter continued till they were admitted to the house by a slatternly maid wearing a dirty apron and unkempt hair.
"I am Mrs. Euston. Reginald knows I am stopping to change my team," she said. "Is he here?"
"He's at the stable, mum. I didn't know you was coming, but he'll see by your carriage you've got here."
"Slattern," Mrs. Euston said, looking after her. "Reginald's wife is dead, which accounts for the state of this place." She drew out a handkerchief to dust off the chair before sitting down with a grunt. "Where is Bobbie? The rascal darted straight off to the stable again. He'll come in filthy. Maybe I should go after him. No, I won't, though. I'll send the girl for him when she brings tea."
She looked around the dingy parlor, disapproval on every line and wrinkle of her raddled old face. She regaled Vanessa with some of Reginald's naval exploits, till the tea was brought in. She sent the girl off for Bobbie, poured tea and said, "Do you take anything in it?"
"A little milk, please, no sugar."
"You are not wise. The milk is curdling. There, I shall put in a little sugar to hide the wretched taste.'' She passed the cup along. "I don't believe I shall have any milk," she said, then she sipped judiciously. "This is cheap tea, ground-up stems. I doubt there was a leaf in the lot. It tastes bitter, does it not?"
"It is not bohea, Mrs. Euston, but I am thirsty from the drive," Vanessa said, drinking thirstily.
"I shall send the slattern for fresh milk. It is the curdled milk that is destroying the taste. I am fussy about my tea."
"It's not bad," Vanessa replied, her wish being to drink it up quickly, say thank you to Reginald Euston and get back on the road. She took another sip, then felt queasy. She put the cup down, leaned back against the chair and closed her eyes.
"Gracious, I hope you are not going to be ill!" Mrs. Euston exclaimed.
"No. I did not take any breakfast. I'm feeling faint, that's all."
"I'll order some bread and butter."
"Please—don't ..." She felt a wave of nausea, opened her eyes, shook her head and looked for the closest door. It seemed a great distance away, though she had not taken ten steps from it to her chair. While she still looked, a strange phenomenon occurred. The room turned into a long, dark tunnel, the door a diminutive hole at its farthest end. Mr. Carlisle, with one eye swollen and blackened, staring at her, was the last thing she was conscious of before the tunnel began swaying, then closed in over her head, as she slumped from the chair.
Chapter Thirteen
When Vanessa regained consciousness, she lay on a foul-smelling bed in a small room, with her hands tied behind her back. It was still daylight, the only satisfactory feature of her surroundings. Darkness would have been worse. Her head did not ache; it felt hollow, or stuffed with cotton wool. A strange lethargy invaded her whole being, a feeling that things did not matter, because they were unreal.
It was very odd to be in a strange and dirty room—what could account for it? The blanket thrown over her was rough against her skin. As she stretched her stiff fingers against her lower spine, she realized she was not wearing any clothing. This, like the other bizarre aspects of her condition, she found mildly curious. For several minutes she lay awake, yet not entirely alert, looking at a series of brown watermarks on the wall. They seemed strangely familiar to her. Oh, yes, she thought with a smile, the Outer Hebrides—a large, wider mark on top, dwindling to narrower and shorter ones in the south, the whole group slightly curved. This recognition offered some sense of security. She knew now where she was, at the Outer Hebrides.
As she became more fully awake, she realized her arms were uncomfortably stiff. By wriggling her wrists and hands, the ropes that bound her were shrugged off without too much difficulty. Her jailer had done a careless job. He had been in a hurry, or she was considered harmless due to her condition. She sat up, holding the blanket to her chin with one hand, the rope in the other, for examination.
The past events began, slowly, to seep back into her mind, bringing a sense of dread. Mr. Carlisle at the parlor door, looking at her, not with the adoring face of yore, but with a quite different expression. Vicious was the word that came to mind. She felt a shiver along her spine, soon followed by a terrible apprehension for her safety, her very life. She would never be allowed to go free, now that she knew him for what he was. Her only chance for survival was to escape, before they knew she had regained consciousness.
The letter was her next thought. Had they got it? She jumped out of bed, wrapping the blanket around her. Her clothing was gone, every stitch of it carried away. She tried the door, being careful to make little noise, and found it locked. The only furnishing other than the bed was a small chest of drawers.
Hoping to find some clothing, she walked silently to it, eased open the four drawers, one after the other, to find it contained four ancient hats, one moth-eaten gentleman's beaver and three ladies' bonnets, covered in wilting flowers and faded feathers.
There was no carpet on the floor, no canopy on the bed, no draperies at the windows, no possible hiding place, and nothing to manufacture clothing. She ran to the window to examine her chances for escape by that means. She was on a second story, looking down a sheer wall to a patch of hard-packed earth, with not even a blade of grass to cushion her drop.
A jump would not kill her, but it would quite possibly break a leg, making escape impossible. It was clear why they had been careless of her bindings; she was as helpless as if she were in chains, locked in a room with no clothing and no means of escape. If she used the blanket as a rope to help her descend, she would have to enter the outdoors stark naked.
And really the blanket, a thick woolen thing, was not at all capable of being tied into knots, nor was there anything near the window to tether it to. Was she to sit like a rat in a trap, waiting for them to come and—what? Kill her? Assault, molest her? Yes, Carlisle's expression had been violent enough that he would exact every revenge before killing her.
Worst of all, they had found the letter, they must have found it. They had taken all her things. Maybe they had gone away, abandoned her in their haste to deliver the news to their superiors. She wanted to go to the door and rattle it, yell and scream and see if there was anyone in the house. Yet if there was someone ... If, say, Carlisle, was lurking about downstairs waiting for her to revive ...
No, she would wait and think and try to devise a plan of self-rescue. Her efforts were hampered by the awful panic rising in her bosom. Her whole body trembled; she felt ill, whether from the drugged tea or fear, she did not know, nor did it matter. She crouched on the end of the bed, trying to calm her nerves, to strengthen her resolve. Her throat was dry and painful, so painful as to be an added distraction.
How had she got here? Carlisle, obviously, had arranged it. He had been her enemy from the start, then. Kil
ey was right. He had followed her, perhaps all the way from Hastings, had discovered at the inn at Tilbury that she was going to Raffertys, and gone after her. He either actually knew Edward Rafferty or discovered that a son existed, and something of his interests and whereabouts—enough to hazard an appearance at the door.
She reviewed all his seeming innocence and naiveté, his accepting her story that she carried diamonds, his kind offer first to accompany her, then his gradual insinuation into her confidence, his request to be given the letter to "protect." And all the time he was luring her along to this—to get her alone and take the letter by force. The reinforcements Kiley had spoken of at Colchester must have been Mrs. Euston and the men on the carriage with her. Mrs. Euston, so conveniently going to London with an empty carriage, when she saw herself reading the London schedule. Had she said she was going to Ipswich, the empty carriage would have been headed in that direction. Bobbie's part in it was unclear, but she took him for a real grandson, used to add an air of naturalness to the woman's appearance. Who would suspect a grandmother and child of such treachery?
And what about Kiley? He was not who he said either. Had he come from her father, he would have had some proof. He would have known her destination without learning it from Carlisle. Most damning of all, he would not have opened the letter to Sir Giles. He would have delivered it. He was some separate spy; no doubt Napoleon had dozens of them working independently. She could not account for the animosity of the two men, unless they were professional competitors, both spies, both after her letter, but not working together. This being the case, she was surprised it was Carlisle who had won out. She would have put her faith in Kiley for being the more clever and ruthless of the two.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the clattering of a horse and carriage rolling up in front of the house. She could not see it, but she heard the sounds. Soon she heard faint stirrings belowstairs, knocks and bumps and an occasional grunt loud enough to rise up through the floor. The commotion, fight, from the sounds of it, was going on in the room immediately below her. Another falling out among the thieves, probably about the letter or herself. She had the ominous sensation that the victor would bolt up the stairs, unlock the door and confront her, quite possibly rape her—and what could she do to stop him? She could jump out the window naked or she could wait. She looked to the window, knowing there was a carriage out front. A person could hide her nakedness in a carriage.
The decision was taken from her. Within a split second of the thought, there was a hard pounding on the stairs, steps hurrying down the hall. The door rattled. He was here!
"Miss Bradford! Vanessa—are you all right?" She recognized Kiley's voice, though it was strained, tense and unnatural-sounding.
She swallowed, looked fruitlessly around the room, knowing there was no place to hide. She got up off the bed, pulling the blanket about her, silent with dread. The door was suddenly heaving, as it was subjected to kicks, or possibly a straining shoulder. There was the sound of shattering wood, and suddenly he was there, panting, gasping, staring at her. She stared back; neither of them said a word.
When he had recovered his breath, Kiley said, "Are you all right?" He sounded remarkably angry.
She went on looking at him, her throat too dry and sore to answer, but her eyes conveying her fear and loathing. "Are you all right?" he asked, more loudly, more angrily. "For God's sake say something! What did they do to you?"
"They got the letter," she said.
He took three long strides to her. "How did they get it? What did they do?"
"I don't know. I was drugged."
"They left you like this, naked?" His eyes ran around the room, saw the rope on the bed. "Were you beaten, abused in any way? Raped?"
"No, I don't have any scars or pain. Carlisle is not so vicious as you, Kiley." She was past caring what she said. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.
"I should have killed the bastard while I had the chance. Get dressed. We're leaving."
"I don't have any clothes. They took them."
"Look around the other rooms. There must be something you can put on. I have to see the man I knocked out downstairs isn't planning any mischief. There was a serving wench ran out to the stable. She may have gone for help. I'll tie the man up and come back to you. We must hurry."
He left, turned and walked out, leaving the door unlocked. She went into the hallway, entered the next room, a man's, to judge from the shirts and trousers on the bed. Across the hall was a female's chamber, in a great state of disarray. A part of the mess was her own gown and underclothing. She looked for her shoes but did not see them. The gown, already ripped to the waist, had been completely destroyed, pulled in three pieces. Was it spite, or did they think she had in some manner concealed the letter in its folds or seams? The flounce, a double flounce, had been pulled completely off the gown, to lay in a puddle on the floor. She quickly put on her underclothing, happy to get out of the scratchy blanket, then went to the clothes press to see what gowns hung there.
They were all large, dark and unfashionable—gowns that suited and probably belonged to Mrs. Euston. She took one from the hanger, her nose wrinkling in disgust at its moldering condition. Before she had time to slip it over her head, Kiley was back. That he should unceremoniously walk in while she wore only her petticoats was not remarkable, after the greater indignities she had suffered. She directed one brief glance at him, then put the gown over her head.
"I tied him up. The wench is gone," Kiley said. "Do you need a hand?"
As she was about to decline his offer, she noticed the gown hooked up the back. She turned around, still not speaking, but letting him discover for himself what was to be done. His fingers flew along, skipping every second hook.
"They've gone toward London," he said.
"Who?"
"Carlisle and the woman, and those men that were on the carriage."
"How do you know?"
"A little boy out front told me. A child, too young to have learned to lie yet, I think. I would have met them if they'd gone the other way. They weren't met on the road from Colchester. I kept a sharp eye out."
"You're going after them?" she asked.
"We're going after them."
"You don't need me. Let me go back to my aunt."
"By what means? You don't have a carriage. I promised your father I would look after you. I have done a damned poor job of it thus far, haven't I? I can't leave you here alone, and I can't spare the time to take you." His hands jerked roughly on the hooks.
She turned to look at him, frowning, trying to figure out his part in her escapade.
"Don't look at me like that," he said. "It's not all my fault. If you'd done as I asked in the first place, none of this would have happened. Not to you, at least."
His harsh features, which she was accustomed to see set in lines of determination and anger, were softened to regret. His eyes too bore traces of sympathy, perhaps pity. "Was it very bad?" he asked, his tone gentle.
"No, not so very bad. I was drugged as soon as I arrived. The trip was not unpleasant."
"Was Carlisle in the carriage?"
"No, I caught a glimpse of him at the parlor door, just as I passed out from the tea. They put something in it, in my cup."
"It was the big gray-haired woman calling herself Mrs. Euston who brought you? I saw her talking to Carlisle at the inn."
"Yes, her and the boy. He was her grandson, she said. She even knew my aunt, which made me feel secure ..."
"Claimed to know her, after she wormed a name and probably an address out of you."
"It might have been that way. Yes, I think I told her."
"How did she lure you to this isolated spot?"
"By stopping at her relative's place to change teams. It all seemed so natural, the way she scolded and—everything."
"She's a pro, probably been doing this sort of thing for years."
"But who is she?"
"An accomplice of Carlisle's. Possibly some
relative—I really have no idea."
"They're not French. Why should they be helping Napoleon?"
"For money. That's all—the job pays well. French spies working for France are patriots, as English ones working for England are. It is the turncoats that are despicable. Even their employers despise them. Still, they'll be paid handsomely for their information, and that's all they're interested in. They cannot have much of a head start on us. Let's go."
She turned around, trying to decide on Kiley's innocence. "Mr. Kiley," she began.
"My name is Landon, remember? Colonel Landon. You cannot know how I have come to detest the name of Kiley."
"Did my father really send you?"
"How else should I have got here?"
"How did Carlisle? Spies have ways ..."
"Well, you know, Miss Bradford, it is very much your own fault that Carlisle is here. Yours and your father's. I do not feel he acted at all wisely either in sending his message with a pair of ladies."
"I didn't tell anyone."
"You and your aunt stopped to examine the preparations for the ball at Hastings before leaving. Your father told you to go directly to Sir Giles Harkman. If you had followed his orders, no one would have followed you in time to be of any danger. A great deal of curiosity was generated at learning of the sudden trip, and at such an unlikely time. That, coupled with your father's known great interest in Napoleon's preparations, was bound to lead any wide-awake fellow, which I think we must grant Carlisle to be, to suspect there was more to the voyage than a visit to a friend."
"I didn't believe the message had any importance. I thought Papa was just being mean. He doesn't like me to have much to do with the officers at home. If you really came from him, why did you not bring any proof?"
"He was not at all eager for me to go after you, at first, anyway. He thought it would draw attention to you, till I mentioned I had my civilian clothing with me. When I learned the sort of talk running around the garrison, I knew I must leave. I changed into mufti, and only stopped a moment to tell him I was going. In our consternation, we neither of us thought of a letter of introduction. And when I was told at Tilbury that you had already been attacked, I knew I was right to have gone after you. I don't understand how you trusted Carlisle so implicitly, and myself not at all. What did he do, what charm did he work, to convince you?"