by Amy Jarecki
“We’re at a gallop, Your Grace!” bellowed the coachman.
Drake ground his back molars. For the love of God, he could run faster. He had a matched pair unsurpassed by anything Tattersalls might offer up for auction.
With no other recourse, over and over again, Drake slammed the pommel of his cane into the seat opposite. By the time the carriage came to a stop outside the Calthorpe town house, the velvet had been bludgeoned to shreds while sweat soaked the band of his top hat. Not waiting for the footman, Drake barreled onto the footpath, up the steps, and pounded on the door. “Open at once! This is a matter of life and death!”
The gaunt butler popped his nose out the door. “Ravenscar is it? What the devil, Your Gr—”
Jamming his card into the insolent boob’s palm, Drake shoved his way inside. “Two dancers have been kidnapped from my theater, that is what, one of whom has a rather close attachment with Lady Calthorpe. I’m certain she will be quite anxious to know of this calamity.”
The man held the card to the candlelight. “Close attachment, Your Grace?”
“Notify Her Ladyship of my presence forthwith.”
“Straightaway. Please wait in the parlor.”
“What is going on?” asked Lord Calthorpe as he plodded down the stairs, wearing full evening dress and looking as if he’d recently returned from a night at a ball.
“Ravenscar?” Her Ladyship’s startled voice came from behind the baron. “Branson, please open a bottle of claret for His—”
Drake held up his palms. “Not on my account. Something dire has happened.”
“At the theater?” asked Calthorpe.
Her Ladyship drew her hands over her heart. “Oh heavens, please tell me all is well with Britannia.”
Drake’s gaze shot to the baron. Did he know? This was no time for secrets. “I wish to heaven I could tell you she is well.”
The countess gasped. “No!”
Drake glanced between the couple, his lips thinning. Uttering more might very well ruin the woman for the rest of her days. “May I speak freely?” he asked, well aware he’d already said too much.
Her face stricken, she nodded, looking like the Maid of Lorraine, ready to lead her army into battle. “I’ve told my husband all.”
Calthorpe gestured to the adjoining room. “Please step into the parlor.”
Drake moved inside, but he didn’t sit. None of them did. Using as few syllables as possible, he explained how Miss Renaud had gone missing before the final performance of La Sylphide and how Britannia vanished afterward. “All we know is someone gave a missive addressed to her to the stage boy.”
“Doubtless, it had something to do with Miss Renaud’s whereabouts,” said Calthorpe.
Drake slammed the ball of his cane into his palm. “That is my presumption as well.”
“Oh, my Lord in heaven, no.” The baroness’ skirts skimmed the Oriental rug as she paced. “He threatened, but I never thought he’d be mad enough to act. And he brought Miss Renaud into his delusion as well.”
Shards of ice pulsed through Drake’s veins. “You’re speaking of Beaufort?” Her ladyship nodded while he gripped his cane with iron fingers. “What. Exactly. Did he threaten?”
“I thought he was just having one of his tirades.” Her Ladyship braced her hands on the back of a chair. “H-he ranted about sending my bastard so far away from England no one would ever find her!”
Drake’s gut turned to lead. “Good God.”
“We must make haste. Confront the old fool before he has time to act on his threats.” Calthorpe started for the door. “Ravenscar, your carriage is outside I presume?”
“It is.” Leading the way, Drake raced out the door.
MR. GIBBS SAT ACROSS the carriage from Bria, his face cadaverous in the dim light.
“Why is it taking so long?” Bria insisted, grinding her fists into the seat cushion. “I must see Pauline this instant!”
Never in a hundred days would she have suspected Mr. Gibbs, a former lawman, to be involved in kidnapping. But presently, he seemed to rather enjoy making Britannia uncomfortable. “She’s quite well.”
“What are you saying? What did you do with her?”
He pulled the curtain aside and looked out. They weren’t in London anymore. The moon shone blue on the grass as they passed. “I reckon she ought to be waking up about now.”
“Waking up? She missed the final performance. Pauline would never do that. Not unless someone poisoned her.”
“Not poison. Just something to make her sleep. Soundly. She’ll wake in some room in the boarding house none the wiser.”
“The boarding house? Why, it is only three blocks from the theater.” Britannia slid toward the door. “Sir, I demand you tell me what you are playing at this very instant!”
He grinned, sliding his fingers into his pocket. What was he hiding in there? Blast, it was too dark to make out much of anything. “You see, someone is paying me a great deal of coin to ensure you never trouble Lady Calthorpe or her family again.”
“Her Ladyship—?” Before Bria could say another word, Mr. Gibbs lurched across the carriage, grabbed her wrist and brutally twined a rope around it.
Thrashing and kicking, she fought to push him a way. “Stop!”
He reached for her other wrist, but Bria was faster. Fighting, she slammed her fist into his jaw. The cur snarled and caught her hand, throbbing knuckles and all.
“That was very unwise,” he growled, winding the rope tighter. He opened his mouth wide and stretched his chin from side to side while he knotted the bindings so forcefully her fingers grew numb.
Bria tugged and twisted, only making the bindings bite into her flesh. “You’re mad!”
“Perhaps.”
“Ravenscar will never let you get away with this. Pauline and now me? You will swing from the gallows!”
“I think not. I am very efficient at covering my tracks. Even if he does figure it out, you’ll be on a convict ship headed for Australia before he can ride to your rescue. And I will be under the protection of my patron.”
An icy chill thrummed through Bria’s veins. Australia? Convict? Mon Dieu, je suis condamnée!
With her next inhalation, the parchment in her bodice crinkled. If only she’d left the missive on her toilette, someone might deduce what had happened. How could she have been so naïve to blindly follow the directive in the missive? How could she think she could save Pauline? She, a petite ballerina take on a behemoth the size of Mr. Gibbs? Heaven’s stars, she was smaller than most women let alone men.
Australia?
She’d heard terrible things about people who perished, the abysmal conditions, the sickness, the—the rats!
Oh God in heaven, please tell me this is not happening!
Chapter Twenty-Five
IT WAS NEARLY ELEVEN o’clock when Drake led Lady and Lord Calthorpe into Beaufort’s salon, complete with a mahogany billiards table.
“Not yet abed, Beaufort?” he asked, sauntering inside.
“Ravenscar?” The elderly duke stumbled away from the table, cue in hand. “Charlotte? Have you completely lost all sense of propriety? How dare you force your way into my home unannounced?”
“Beg your pardon, Your Grace. They were too fast for me,” wheezed the butler from behind, who couldn’t be a day younger than eighty. “Shall I bring up a tray?”
“No, you should not—”
Ready to beat Beaufort to within an inch of his life, Drake sidestepped along the table. “There won’t be time for niceties.”
Inclining his cue stick Drake’s way, Beaufort assumed a defensive stance. “Do not move another inch closer.”
“Or what, pray tell, will you do? Brain me with that skinny piece of maple?” Before the duke could answer, Drake closed the distance, snatched the cue from Beaufort’s hands, cracked it on the side of the table, and broke the damned stick in two.
Lady Calthorpe gasped. “Please, Father—!”
“Where is
she?” Drake demanded, brandishing the splintered end.
Beaufort spread his palms as if he were an innocent monk heading for compline. “To whom are you referring?”
Her Ladyship tsked. “Father, lying does not become you.”
“Whyever not?” asked Lord Calthorpe with a bold display of backbone. “His Grace has been shamming it for so long, I don’t think he knows the difference between truth and fiction.”
Beaufort shot the baron such a deadly glare, Drake had no illusions as to the truthfulness of the baron’s accusation. He smashed the butt end of the cue stick onto the table. “I’m going to ask this once and if I do not receive a satisfactory answer, my next swing will be at your balding head.”
The duke narrowed his eyes. “You dare threaten—”
“It is not a threat. ’Tis a certainty.” Stepping forward, Drake pointed the jagged weapon at the man’s nose. “Where. Is. Miss LeClair?”
“I have no idea—”
Her Ladyship threw out her hands. “Please, Father. Help us.”
Beaufort thrust his finger at his daughter. “Why are you putting this on me? You have no grounds!”
“Actually, we do have evidence and it all points to you,” said Lord Calthorpe.
The coward scooted behind a small writing table—little protection it would give if the man didn’t start cooperating. “No one would dare prosecute me. I am a duke.”
“As am I.” Drake closed in, itching to strike. “And I tell you true, judge and jury are standing before you this night. Now where the hell have you taken Britannia LeClair?”
Her Ladyship neared. “Where, Father?”
Beaufort’s gaze shot from one scowling face to another. “Y-you won’t harm me.”
Rage shot through Drake’s blood like the ignition of a cannon’s fuse. Lunging around the damned desk, he swung back with the weapon, eyeing Beaufort’s neck. He needed the man lucid until he confessed—a strike to the throat wouldn’t knock him out. But the blow would drop him to his knees.
Squealing like a woman, Beaufort threw up his hands and ducked beneath the hissing cue stick. “She’s sailing to Australia!”
God on the cross, the words took Drake’s breath away. “Aust-ral-ia?”
“No!” cried Her Ladyship.
“Which ship?” asked Calthorpe with calm ire. “There’s none sailing from London. Hasn’t been in over a year.”
Drake spun on his heel. “You know this?”
The baron’s shoulder inched up. “I play cards with the Governor of Newgate Prison.”
As Beaufort tried to sidle away, Drake caught the bastard’s wrist. “Which port?”
“I have no idea.” Twisting his arm away, Beaufort collapsed into a chair. “I told my man to send her to Australia on a convict ship. Then I washed my hands of the whole abhorrent affair.”
“Your man?” asked Lady Calthorpe. “’Tis that scoundrel Gibbs, is it not?”
Though her father did not reply, it was clear by his expression his daughter’s guess was right.
Her Ladyship drew praying hands to her lips. “For the love of all that is holy, you must tell us where he’s taking her.”
Beaufort jolted in an attempt to break free. “I know not. That I can admit with utter honesty. Now leave an old man to his peace. I have nothing more to say, especially to you, Ravenscar.”
Drake loomed over the scoundrel—a bane to the aristocracy. “You’d best pray I find her, or I swear I will see to it you set sail on a sinking ship to hell.”
“Come,” Calthorpe beckoned. “And let us hope the governor is at home.”
Reluctantly, Drake stepped away from His Grace, and gave the baron a nod. They were losing time with every tick of the clock. No longer able to withstand the sight of this piss-swilling boar, he turned and hastened for the door.
Once they reached the carriage, Drake pulled one of his footmen aside. “Haste to Half Moon Street. Saddle my horse and ride like hellfire to Newgate Prison.”
“You want me to ride your horse? W-with your saddle, Your Grace?”
“That’s what I said, and have Pennyworth fetch my pistols and dagger. Now run. There’ll be extra wages for you if you have the beast waiting by the time we arrive.”
With a hasty bow, the lad sprinted away.
Inside the carriage, Lady Calthorpe sat as primly as the Dowager Duchess of Ravenscar. She held her back erect, though the corners of her mouth were taut with worry. “You do not believe that young man can make it to Newgate before our carriage?”
“My town house is ten blocks away. And that boy is the fastest man in my employ—was a messenger when he was younger. And never underestimate the power of money. He’ll be there. Mark me.”
Drake clenched his teeth, ready to jump out of his skin. Britannia might be a spitfire, but she was no match for a crew of seedy sailors on a three-month voyage to the south seas. A convict ship to boot. Look at how she’d wilted and swooned after merely crossing the channel! Healthy men perished at sea all the time. And she was so damned frail.
Worse, the crew would throw her in the hold, feed her slop—Lord knows what more they would do.
Drake’s stomach roiled.
By God, he refused to consider it. He would find her. There was no question. He must.
I love her with every fiber of my being.
DRAKE HAD BEEN RIGHT. The footman arrived at Newgate Prison just as he and the Goughs alighted from the carriage.
“I have news, Your Grace,” said the lad.
Drake’s heart leaped. “Yes?”
“Miss Renaud has been found. Pennyworth thought you would want to know.”
“Thank you.” Drake eyed Her Ladyship. “Well, at least we’re only searching for one woman.”
“One too many,” she agreed.
The lad waited outside, holding the horse while Calthorpe gained entry to the governor’s quarters. Of course, they were met with exasperation due to the lateness of the hour. But it couldn’t be helped.
Once the governor realized he was not only being addressed by a baron, but a duke had taken pains to darken his door at this hour, his sleepy demeanor perked considerably. “Indeed, I have a schedule of all convict ships sailing for Australia. ’Tis in my offices. Follow me.”
Drake marched behind the man. “Lord Calthorpe tells me there hasn’t been a convict ship sail from London for quite some time.”
“That’s right. To make the crossing, large ships are necessary, and the Thames just isn’t equipped—there are far too many merchant ships, I should add. Society doesn’t care to have a vessel laden with ne’er-do-wells anchored in the Pool of London. It just isn’t good use of prime moorage.”
“How do you transport the prisoners to the ships?” asked Drake.
“By wagon mostly.” Stopping outside a big oak door, the governor grappled for a ring of keys tied to his belt.
“And from which ports do they usually sail?” asked Her Ladyship.
“All of them, honestly. I sent a wagon full of thieves all the way to Maryport last month.”
Drake followed the governor inside, praying for a closer port...but not too close. The further away, the better chance he’d have of intercepting her kidnapper before he reached its destination.
“The book is just here. My clerk enters the ship’s name and expected date and port of departure.”
“Expected?” asked Drake.
“Well, all manner of things can go wrong, what with the weather and the like.”
Lady Calthorpe crossed herself. “Jesu save us.”
The governor opened a large, bound volume atop his table. “Let me see,” he hummed as if he had all night to turn the bloody pages.
Drake was about to rip the book from the man’s grasp when the governor’s pointer finger stilled. “Here we are. The Lloyds, a four-masted barque sails from Portsmouth on August 19th.”
“That’s two days hence.”
Calthorpe glanced to the mantel clock. “One, actually, given
’tis just past the witching hour.”
“At a fast trot I can reach Portsmouth in ten hours.” Drake tugged on his gloves. “I shall leave at once. If I ride all night, I’ll be there before midday. I’ll find her well in advance of the Lloyds sailing time.”
“A moment.” The governor scanned down the page a bit. “There’s a brig, the Amphitrite, scheduled to depart Plymouth on the twenty-first.”
“Plymouth?” Her Ladyship fanned her face. “What if Britannia is not in Portsmouth? Can His Grace reach Plymouth in two days?”
“If nothing goes awry,” said Calthorpe.
Drake shot the baron a stern look. “I will allow no one and no obstacle to stand in my way.”
Oblivious to the conversation, the governor continued, “Furthermore, there’s not another ship sailing for Australia until the Royal Sovereign departs Port Chatham on the sixth of September.”
Drake leaned over and read the entry. “Then it’s either Portsmouth or Plymouth.”
Her Ladyship did the same. “Very well, count on the Goughs to do our part to save Britannia. Calthorpe and I will travel on to Plymouth in the morning. ’Tis a two-day carriage ride, is it not, Freddy?”
“A long two days, but even if it takes us three, we’ll arrive in plenty of time to locate both the Amphitrite and Miss LeClair,” said the baron. “Jolly good idea, my dear.”
“You would travel all that way, my lady?” asked Drake.
“She’s my daughter. After nineteen years, I’m not planning to lose her yet again.”
Drake bowed. “Then it is settled. I’ll ride to Portsmouth. If I find Britannia along the way, I’ll send word to Plymouth. If, heaven forbid, I do not intercept her, I’ll continue on and meet you there.”
“We’ll stay at the King’s Inn. Send your correspondence there.”
“Your Grace.” The governor clasped his hands. “Might I suggest you wait until morning and give me a chance to organize His Majesty’s dragoons to accompany you to the coast?”
“There won’t be time. I must leave straightaway. Miss LeClair is in dire straits and I cannot bear to see her suffer any longer than necessary.”