by Regan Walker
“The Earl of Rutledge.”
“Rutledge…?” The duke drew his brows together as he considered the name. “I cannot recall the man’s face. But I do know the name. Seems I recall he has a bad reputation.” He looked up, and as if catching the energy rolling off of Martin gave him a quick glance and began to stride back toward the estate indicating Martin should follow.
“Let us return to my study where I keep the estate books. My agent can tell us what property he rented to the earl and when.”
* * *
The duke spoke briefly with his agent, who handed him a ledger. He turned to Martin and said, “The house Rutledge leased is one of several I reserve for visiting members of the nobility and gentry.” He pulled a map from a file and spread it on his desk. “It’s near the village of Cromford, south of Chatsworth and about eight miles north of Pentridge. It was vacant only a short time before Rutledge arranged with my agent to take it.”
“I thank you, Your Grace. I must leave immediately.”
“Seeing how the man may have sequestered your wife in one of my properties, it seems only fitting I should accompany you, Sir Martin.” The duke looked again at the map. “I know the house well, and since Prinny is a good friend and you’re on his business, it is the least I can do.”
“Are you certain, Your Grace? The task will be dangerous. He has stooped to violence more than once.” In fact, he had already attempted rape, but Martin wouldn’t mention that. Kit would be thought less of in the eyes of some if others knew she’d been subject to Rutledge’s barbarity. It was one reason he’d been glad she didn’t have to face a trial for the man’s death. Today he would risk that the duke could be trusted.
“I’ll not let you go alone. Oh, and do call me Hart. I prefer it. Ormond knows the name well and uses it most freely.” The duke was already striding out the door and toward the stables when he shouted over his shoulder, “We can take one of my footmen with us. I’ve had the usual training with pistols myself, of course.”
Martin caught up and, on the way to the stables, explained the uprising that had delayed his learning of his wife’s abduction, so he was half-expecting the duke’s next statement.
“The people of Pentridge are my responsibility, and if there have been crimes against the Crown I must know which of my tenants has been involved. These are difficult times for the people of the Midlands, but I cannot tolerate those who would rise in revolution.”
“I doubt if they would have without prodding,” Martin said as they reached their goal. “They were urged on by Sidmouth’s spy, and his protégé Brandreth.”
The two men mounted horses made ready for them. A footman joined them, and as the duke settled himself in his saddle he asked, “Sidmouth’s spy?”
“With your permission, Your—Hart, I’ll explain as we ride.” Martin wanted to tarry not a moment longer.
“You will need to speak up, then, as I’m not likely to hear all you say with the pounding of the horses’ hooves. My hearing sometimes fails me!”
The travel south was fast and hard. Martin and the duke rode abreast, followed by the duke’s footman, a burly servant who carried himself like a former soldier. The duke had graciously granted Martin a fresh mount, one of his own grand Thoroughbreds. By now, only his fear for Kit kept Martin awake, as every muscle in his exhausted body protested the grueling pace.
He had a foreboding that he might be too late, and that dread of it drove him onward. Pictures of his smiling auburn-haired kitten flashed into his mind. When had she become all to him? His chest ached with the thought that he could lose her. He knew well that in one tragic moment she could be gone. If Rutledge had been involved in Sidmouth’s business in Derbyshire, by now he might be leaving and taking Kit with him, what with the rebellion quashed. She would fight as she had once before. What would that fight lead to this time? The thought tore at Martin. Losing her would destroy his world. He desperately wanted that world.
As they covered the miles, Martin had to shout at times for the duke to hear him over the pounding of the horses’ hooves, just as the man warned. He responded to questions pertaining to all that had happened. The duke grew angry when Martin told him of Oliver the spy, retained by the government to stir unrest in the duke’s own lands.
“It is not just the harsh winters, crop loss and machines that have replaced workers,” Martin explained, “they are unhappy at having no direct say in government.” Having listened to all the speeches and complaints, he had a good feeling for what had led the people to join the ill-conceived rebellion.
“I myself favor the vote for the populace,” the duke offered, his voice rising to be heard over the galloping horses, “but it cannot come about this way.”
“They are poor and ill educated. When the spy Oliver told them all of England was ready to rise and demand change, they believed him.”
The duke seemed to consider this as he shouted back, “Perhaps if the people had been better educated they might have known a ridiculous claim when it was presented. They might have come to me. I shall look into it.”
Martin vaguely nodded in agreement, his thoughts having long ago left the matter of interest to the duke. His only energy was focused on reclaiming the object of his heart’s desire. He must reach her before Rutledge could harm her.
* * *
“But there must be a Frenchman among the rebels arrested!” Rutledge demanded of the cowering magistrate behind the desk. He had to shout to be heard over the din of the waiting room behind him where prisoners were being questioned.
The rotund magistrate peered up at him, speech faltering. “But m-m’lord—”
“Look again, you idiot! You must have missed a name. He’s one of them!”
The room behind them suddenly stilled. Feeling eyes boring into his back, Rutledge grew impatient. He was weary of the ineptitude of the local populace.
The magistrate returned his attention to the paper he held in trembling hands, but Rutledge cared not a whit if he disturbed this incompetent man’s day; these country bumpkins were getting on his nerves. He pounded his fist on the desk to warn the magistrate he was serious. “Look again!”
“I’m s-sorry m’lord,” the man stammered, “but the list the hussar captain gave me of the men he arrested this morning contains no Donet, nor any French name at all.”
“I waited all night and all morning for this paltry result? Surely your men can do better.”
“There are still dragoons in the field rounding up rebels, m’lord. I think they may find him today,” the magistrate offered, sounding hopeful.
Rutledge doubted the man thought of anything save his next meal. Grabbing the list, he studied the column of names. “‘Brassington, Hill, Hunt, Ludlam, Moore, Onion, Swaine, Turner, Weightman,’” he recited under his breath as he ran his finger down the list. Raising his head from the paper to peer down at the magistrate he repeated, “No Donet?”
“No, m’lord.”
The noise of the waiting room behind him resumed its former hum as the soldiers went about the business of dealing with the aftermath of the rebellion that had ended only a few hours before. Rutledge glanced again at the list he held. A name at the bottom of the page, set apart from the others, drew his interest:
Sir Martin Powell, Crown’s Agent.
“Who is this?” he asked, wrinkling his brow in consternation and shoving the paper in front of the magistrate’s nose, finger pointing to the name. “I am not aware of any representative of the Prince’s government here save me.”
“Apparently he was dispatched by the Prince Regent himself, m’lord. Captain Philips assured me he is a most agreeable fellow. Stayed with the rebels all night trying to talk the local men out of following that rascal Brandreth. It seems he turned many back.”
“Odd that Castlereagh never mentioned him,” Rutledge murmured to himself. “Ahem…well,” he spoke up, returning to his original subject that was of more interest. “Please inform me should the Frenchman Donet be apprehended. You can reach me
through my man who will check with you daily while I am in Derbyshire.”
“The prisoners will be taken to the Derby gaol once we’re through with them,” the magistrate called to his departing back.
Still fuming as his boot heels hit the steps leading down from the office, Rutledge pondered his next move. Katherine was now his. He could take his time marrying the girl, but he first wanted the Frenchman arrested. No, he wanted him dead. A hanging would take too long.
Ah, yes. Much too long.
Katherine. Pleased he had her hidden away good and proper, he decided the Frenchman could wait. Katherine, however, could not.
Chapter 24
Kit woke from a restless, uncomfortable slumber as a shaft of light shot through the shuttered window and fell upon her face. She had slumped against the wall and fallen asleep, curled into a ball, tears streaking down her cheeks. She’d never considered sleeping in the bed on the chance Rutledge might return during the night and incorrectly assume she’d accepted her fate. She was thankful he had not.
She wondered if Martin was searching for her. Surely he had returned to their rooms last night and found her missing. What would he think? Might he consider she’d run away? No, he would know she had not. He might have been angry with her but surely he would not believe she would leave him. But when he found her gone, he would not know that Rutledge had taken her. He didn’t even know Rutledge was in Pentridge! How would Martin ever find her?
Perhaps he would not.
The thought of never being in his arms again, of never being able to share with him all that was in her heart, caused Kit to despair. Eventually Rutledge would have to return to London, and she might escape him there, as she had done once before, but what if he left her imprisoned her in the Midlands? That thought sent cold chills through her body. Somehow, she had to escape. She had to get back to Martin.
It scared her to think that somewhere in all that had happened she had come to love Martin with the passionate love her father had for her mother, an irresistible, unstoppable love. Perhaps, in the end, one really had no choice but to accept the love the heart gave in full measure, and all the risks than went with it. Even if the loss of it could break one’s heart.
Her feelings softened toward her father as she remembered the kisses he’d bestowed on her mother, the way he used to wrap his arms around her in delight. He had been smitten, just like Kit was now smitten with Martin. In the end, the loss of that love had robbed her father of his will to live, and that was the part she thought wrong. But it was possible to love like this and still live to celebrate that love if it were ever taken from her. She prayed she would not lose Martin.
Kit had searched the room in which she was imprisoned and knew it to be devoid of weapons. With the window nailed shut, the small panes of glass would render escape through that exit impossible. A sharp piece of glass could be a weapon, but could she break a pane without making a noise that would immediately draw the guard’s attention? She thought not. And she might as easily cut herself as anyone else while trying to use such a crude blade. In her desperation she had even considered the chimney, but the passage was too narrow for her body to fit. No, she would have to go out through the door.
When that same door was opened last evening by the guard to permit a serving woman to carry in a tray of food, Kit had scanned the tray for weapons, disappointed to find only a spoon. She’d tried to catch the serving woman’s eye, hoping for sympathy or possibly an indication of a willingness to help, but the older woman kept her head down, likely thinking the lord from London kept an unruly mistress who needed taming. But Kit’s spirits rose when, as she sat staring at the pot of tea on the tray, she had an idea. If this morning’s breakfast tray brought another pot of the nearly boiling liquid, she would use it to escape. It was her only chance, and though it was a slim one, she would take it.
Rising from the floor, she stretched out the kinks in her back and braced herself for what lay ahead, her mind racing with all she had to do. She didn’t have long to wait. The door slowly opened, just as it had the night before. The guard allowed the older serving woman to carry in the tray then stepped into the doorway to watch. As the tray was placed on a small table, Kit took a deep breath and moved quickly to the teapot.
“Thank you,” she said to the woman. Picking up the pot of tea, she removed the lid. Her hands were trembling as she took the few steps to where the guard stood, but his manner was unwary. Perhaps he thought she’d come to offer him a cup. She mustered her strength and hurled the scalding liquid into his face.
The old woman shrieked. The guard bellowed in rage and covered his scalded face with both hands. Using all her strength, Kit shoved him aside and hit him over the head with the teapot, shattering the pottery. Then she flew down the stairs and out the front door.
She’d covered only a short distance when she heard heavy footfalls behind her. Suddenly grabbed from behind, she tripped. A man’s body slammed into hers, and they both hit the ground. Air was forced from her lungs and for a moment Kit just lay there panting, bruised and defeated.
“Not so fast, missy,” the guard said, rising from the ground. “Ye’ll not be leaving until his lordship says so.” He pulled her up, and she saw that this burly guard was not the same one she’d assaulted with the tea. She recalled Rutledge had said there were guards.
She tried to shake off his grip. “Let me go! I’m being held against my will! My husband will have his vengeance on all of you.”
“His lordship said to expect ye’d give such an excuse. Yer his to deal with, not mine.” Then, thrusting her roughly before him, the guard ordered her back inside.
* * *
Rutledge reined in his horse and handed the reins to the guard he’d ordered remain in front of the house he’d leased so conveniently from the Duke of Devonshire. Just as the housekeeper opened the front door, however, the guard said, “Yer lady tried to escape this morning, yer lordship, but she’s in her room now.”
Rutledge paused to consider this new bit of information, then shrugged and entered the house. He was not surprised Katherine had attempted to flee. Hadn’t she done the same in London? But soon, very soon, he would make the girl his own. In time she would come to accept her future with him. After all, he was not a bad lover, and though well-born she had few options. No woman could prefer a common Frenchman—a criminal, no less—to an earl. Then, too, he was certainly higher in rank than her first husband, the old baron. Yes, she should be content as an earl’s wife.
And if she was not? Well, then, he would follow his plan to get her with child. She would not flee after that.
* * *
Kit had been dreading what she knew would surely be a fight she must wage even if she lost and was bloodied in the process. Unsurprised when the door suddenly opened, she braced herself against the wall.
“There you are, m’dear,” Rutledge said, eyeing her like a hunter sighting his prey. “Did you have an active morning?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. When she said nothing, just stared, he went on. “Any attempt to flee will not go well for you…and, as you’ve seen, will be unsuccessful.”
His dark hair was mussed and his elegant clothes wrinkled as if he’d slept in them. Never had she seen him so disheveled. Usually every hair was in place and he was flawlessly attired. Always he’d been particular in his ways, fastidious to a fault. Where had he been all night?
She watched as he slowly began to unbutton his waistcoat. Though she thought she knew quite well his intention, she couldn’t help asking, “What are you doing?”
“Why, undressing, of course, m’dear. Did you think I would have you fully dressed?”
His demeanor was cold, his tone detached and passionless, his only hint of emotion the lust in his eyes. Fear crawled through her veins like cold sap. He was evil.
“You cannot do this!” she yelled. “I am married!”
“Ah, yes. If that bothers you, it will soon be remedied. Even now they are rounding up the rebels who last
night marched, weapons in hand, determined to reach London. Your husband the Frenchman—Donet, isn’t it?—was among them. He, too, will soon be arrested and, I daresay, await the hangman’s noose.”
“My husband with the rebels?” Kit was horrified. Could it be? She had convinced herself Martin was no party to the insurrection planned by the men of Pentridge and their Nottingham Captain. No, Martin was a knight awarded the honor by Prince George. Her husband had asked for her trust, and she had given it as well as her heart. She would no longer believe he had anything to do with treason, no matter his reasons for associating with the treasonous.
“I have it direct from the magistrate that they are even now rounding up more traitors. The hussars dealt with many this morning. Soon they will have your Frenchman.”
It was then Kit realized Martin might not even know she was gone from their rooms, not if he’d never returned. Hopelessness swirled around her like a black cloud. Where was he? Surely he would come for her if he knew where she was. He loved her. She believed that.
Down to his shirt and breeches, Rutledge approached. “Come, m’dear. I had a long night and I am tired, so this first time will be rather quick. But there will be many more…opportunities for us to take our pleasure.”
He reached for her hand and she pulled away. “No!”
“Oh, yes, m’dear,” he said, grinning, and Kit wondered not for the first time if he was out of his mind.
“You’re mad!” She shouted the words as if throwing them at him might hold back his lechery.
“Consumed with the thought of finally having what is mine? Yes, I freely admit it. But mad? Certainly not.”
He cornered her and this time successfully gripped her wrist to swing her up and onto the bed where she landed with a thump. Determined to escape, Kit quickly sat up on her knees and backed to the far side of the bed, all the while watching him to anticipate his next move.
He was fast, and he leapt upon her. After a brief struggle he pinned her, but writhing under him she fought with all her strength, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and trying to force him back. When his mouth slammed down on hers, she bit his lip. He reared back, glaring at her, and then he grabbed her hands, holding them away from her body.