Rogue in Red Velvet

by Lynne Connolly

  Lord Leverton cleared his mouth and took a few gulps of tea, seemingly oblivious of the fraught silence. “You came back very thoughtful and I thought finally you’d met her. When I realized it wasn’t La Stobart, I wondered who it could be. A few young ladies just happened by that week, I’m guessing, once they knew you were in the house. So which one was it? Look, I won’t ask much but that you find someone you like. I keep finding these women for you but if that’s not your taste, we’ll forget them. It’s not good for you, not good for the title either. I want you married before the season’s out.”

  “That wasn’t the reason I came back thoughtful.” Not entirely, anyway. “That was because of Jasper Dankworth.”

  “I wonder you concern yourself with him.” Lord Leverton’s aristocratic nose flared, a reminder of his opinion of Jacobite traitors who wanted nothing more than to plunge the country back into serfdom, the subject of his one and only speech in the House.

  “He is contracted to marry one woman but he’s courting Stobart. Actually announced his engagement.”

  His father put his cutlery down and leaned back, raising his black brows. “There’s more than altruistic interest here, isn’t there?”

  Damn the man, he wasn’t supposed to notice. “That part doesn’t matter. The whole business of leading two women on doesn’t taste well in my mouth but I’m waiting on events. I wrote to the woman he’s deceiving and told her I’d be her friend in this matter but I’ve had no reply. For all I know the marriage contract could have been voided and Dankworth is free to move on.” Alex shrugged and reached for his cup. “It’s not my concern, Pa.”

  Except if that proved to be the case Alex would order his travelling coach readied for immediate departure to Cumbria. The only reason he’d walked away from that contract.

  Now he had grown up, Alex rarely used the nursery name for his father. A slip he regretted, because his old man would notice but he couldn’t change it now.

  “You do as you think fit, my boy. Just don’t do anything to disgrace the family name and find a bride quick smart, you hear me?”

  Wearily, Alex promised to do his best.

  After his father left, Alex decided to return to White’s and take a look at the betting book but before he could leave the house, a knock fell on the door. One of his footmen opened it to a messenger. The footman transferred the missive he paid for to a salver and brought it to Alex, despite him standing at the far end of the hall the whole time. The tyranny servants wielded over their masters demanded the transfer. God forbid that his retainers would allow Lord Ripley to take a letter directly from the note bearer.

  Alex took the letter with a word of thanks. The tattered cover and the crossings out and redirections made it difficult to identify at first, but eventually he recognized the letter he’d dispatched to Connie. It had never reached her.

  That meant she didn’t know about Dankworth. Alex tapped the letter against his open hand, wondering if he should send her another. On the whole, he thought not. He’d visit her instead. Once the notion had taken hold when he was with his father, it wouldn’t let go. He could travel as quickly as a letter if he took a fast carriage.

  He turned to ask his footman to summon his butler to make the arrangements, but someone rapped on the kitchen door with an agitated tattoo.

  “I’ll discover what the trouble is, my lord,” the footman said.

  “No. Let me.” Instead of going down the backstairs, which would cause untold turmoil in the servants’ hall, he went outside. He flung the front door wide and descended the shallow steps to the street.

  At the bottom of the area steps, outside the servant’s door, a woman, dressed plainly like a servant, stood hammering on the door. “Please, I need help!”

  “Come up,” he said, fascinated by the distraction.

  The woman looked up, eyes wide in her white face. “I—I’m sorry, sir but I’m at my wits’ end. My mistress has vanished into thin air.”

  “Who is your mistress?” Color tinged her broad cheeks.

  “Mrs. Rattigan.”

  That name. No, it couldn’t be. But it was. “Come up. Was it me you wished to speak to?”

  “Yes, sir—my lord.” She hurried up the area steps and followed Alex into the main part of the house.

  Leaving a curt instruction with the footman on his way past that he didn’t want to be disturbed, he entered the study,. Alex bade the woman sit then took his place behind his desk. “How did you get my address?”

  The maid glanced away, flushing guiltily. “We—we shared a room on the journey, sir. Mrs. Rattigan muttered your name once or twice in her sleep. Your first name and I recalled you were at the house party. You gave Mrs. Rattigan your address, sir.”

  That sounded plausible, and he vaguely remembered this woman from his Downholland visit. “How does Mrs. Rattigan need my help?” Anything he could do he would. Anything. Alex racked his brains to think of something he wouldn’t do and came up with nothing.

  The woman’s teeth were chattering. He wouldn’t get anything out of her in this state. When she reached up to untie the strings of her bonnet, her hands shook. “What’s your name?”

  “Saxton, my lord.”

  Alex snatched the brandy decanter from the sideboard, poured a generous measure and pressed it on her. “Here, drink. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt.”

  If he didn’t take care, Saxton would need considerable help to explain her story quickly and articulately.

  “N—no, my lord, it’s not that.” Teeth rattling against the glass, she sipped the liquor. Then she took another sip and sat clutching it as if afraid it would get away.

  Alex pulled up another chair and sat next to her. Although alarm coursed through his body, he didn’t drink. “Now tell me what happened from the beginning.”

  “Yes, my lord. I’m very worried for Mrs. Rattigan. I didn’t know if I should write to her godfather but that would take days if he’s not in town and I asked but nobody knew of him. And I didn’t want to wait.”

  She was wringing her hands, her knuckles white with the pressure she was exerting on them. Wringing her hands, she looked around as if afraid of her actions in coming here. “What has happened?”

  “He wrote to her, sir, told her to come to London, where they would be married. We travelled down by stagecoach.” She didn’t say who he was. She didn’t have to.

  “Stagecoach?” asked Alex, amazed. “Why not a private carriage?”

  “Mrs. Rattigan doesn’t keep a travelling carriage, sir. She misliked the chaise that brought her for the visit to Lord Downholland’s. It made her ill, she said. So she might as well be ill for less cost.”

  He nodded. That sounded like Connie, ever practical. Nevertheless, it annoyed him she’d taken that step. He’d have sent a more comfortable carriage for her and he wagered her godfather would have done so, if she’d asked. Typical of her not to make a fuss. “So you travelled down on the stagecoach. When did you arrive?”

  “This morning, sir, at the Belle Sauvage. And just like Mr. Dankworth promised, there was a man waiting for us. He gave my mistress a note. I stayed behind to supervise the unloading of the luggage and to ensure it was stowed safely on Mr. Dankworth’s carriage. I discovered that there was no carriage. Then I went to find my lady and although I made the landlord go through every room, I found no trace of her. Nothing, my lord. He said he’d taken her to a private room and bespoken refreshments, but he didn’t know what happened after that. And the luggage had gone, too. He didn’t care, didn’t seem to understand that my lady wouldn’t go somewhere and leave me behind.” Her hand shook when she put the empty glass on the table.

  Dear God, what had that villain done? “You found nothing?”

  “Nothing. You believe me, sir? I don’t know where else to turn.” Tight lines formed around her mouth, and her face was bleached of color.

  “Of course I believe you. You did the right thing, coming to me. Please speak frankly. If we’re to find where she is, w
e must act quickly.”

  She breathed a long sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir. I was afeared you wouldn’t believe me, or you wouldn’t be interested. You might be thinking I should have found Mr. Dankworth, being her intended and all. But he sent the note, my lord, so it could be him that took my mistress.”

  “You’re sure she’s been taken?”

  The maid nodded. “She wouldn’t have gone anywhere without telling me, or leaving me a message. The landlord was very certain she hadn’t. The luggage had gone, too, loaded into a hackney carriage, according to one of the ostlers. She just wouldn’t have left me, sir. I’ve been with her family all my life. She brought me with her because she could trust me.”

  He was sure, too. At least, sure enough to act on the assumption, because delay could be fatal. If it proved a hum, then he would appear foolish, but that was a risk worth taking.

  He held her frightened stare “I don’t trust Jasper Dankworth. You may have confidence that I will do everything in my power to find your mistress.”

  His stomach churned when he considered the possibilities if she’d found Dankworth. Undoubtedly, he was behind this abduction.

  “She could be dead.” The maid clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “No,” he said firmly. “We must assume she’s alive.”

  Though there was a strong possibility Dankworth had done away with Connie, a thought that turned his innards to liquid. If Dankworth had hurt one hair of Connie’s head, he would pay for it. Connie had people who cared about her, who wouldn’t stop until they found her—including himself. Jasper had the most to lose if she died so the authorities would call on him first. No, if he were Dankworth—God forbid—he’d take another course.

  If Dankworth wanted to kill Connie, surely, he’d have waited until they were married. Then he would be sure of her property. Maybe he was desperate. Was there a way he could get hold of Connie’s money without marrying her? She’d signed the marriage settlement. Were there other provisions?

  “I’ll go to the inn and retrace the man’s steps. You stay here. I’ll give instructions for you to be incorporated into my household as a maid.”

  “Th-thank you my lord but I have a good job—”

  “No, you don’t understand. You are a witness, Saxton. If something has happened to your mistress, they may be looking for you.” He hadn’t thought it possible that she could go any paler but she managed it. Plus, the Dankworths rarely left loose ends behind. Otherwise they’d have been attainted after the ’forty-five. “We’ll call you Robinson while you’re here to protect you from discovery. You know the duties of a housemaid?”

  “That’s what I am, my lord. I’ve been with Mrs. Rattigan for a number of years, so she brought me with her when she came to London.”

  “Did you linger at the inn?”

  “No, my lord. I came straight here once I realized she’d gone.”

  “We will assume you weren’t followed but I’ll tell the servants to stay alert for any lurkers.”

  She bowed her head. “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” She looked up, her eyes widening. “You’ll find her?”

  “Don’t tell anyone your real name or purpose here. Servants talk. As soon as I find Mrs. Rattigan, I’ll let you know.” He stood and put his hand on her shoulder to prevent her doing the same. “Stay here. I’ll send the butler to fetch you and show you your room. The secret remains between us, Robinson. If asked, say the staff registry sent you. Clear?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Alex raced from the room and took the stairs two at a time, shouting for his valet and butler. He gave terse instructions to Grayson and ordered Wentworth to find him something plainer. “I want to look unremarkable.”

  “My lord.” The valet raised a brow but complied.

  Soon Alex emerged in a plain brown coat and russet waistcoat. A little fine but people of all classes used the Belle Sauvage. And a useful array of weapons about his person. Grayson had a chair waiting for him.

  Alex climbed in and ordered the chairmen to run. They covered the distance in excellent time, so he gave them considerably extra. They touched their caps and said, “My lord.”

  He hoped nobody overheard. Passing as an ordinary, though wealthy citizen would get him faster answers here. He strode into the inn and called for the landlord. He used enough arrogance that the landlord appeared in good order, wiping his hands on his apron. He was in a beer-stained waistcoat and shirt only, even with this chill in the air, demonstrating how busy he’d been this morning.

  “My relative, Mrs. Rattigan. Is she here? I must apologize to her for my tardiness, but I assume you made her comfortable while she waited for me.” He had to raise his voice to get over the raucous atmosphere of the inn. People yelled for custom, for attention, for an ostler.

  The landlord frowned. “We ain’t got nobody of that name here.”

  “She’d have arrived on the stage from the north, earlier.” He tapped his foot on the scrubbed boards. “Come, man, I don’t want her to wait any further.”

  A few passers-by cast them curious looks, but none seemed particularly interested. Just in case, Alex repeated the name. “Mrs. Constance Rattigan. She is surely here.”

  Nobody showed any special interest or came forward.

  “I’ll check in the book, sir.”

  The landlord was back with the waybook in a few minutes. He glanced down today’s manifest. “The carriage arrived, sure enough sir, and her luggage was unloaded.” He balanced the large book expertly in one big hand. “It’s not here now. She’s gone, sir. Did you send someone to collect her, perchance?”

  Alex slipped the landlord a few coins and asked him about the man who had come for the lady who owned the luggage. “If I don’t find her my mother will be more than angry.” He gave a mock wince.

  The landlord grinned, displaying a few yellowed and crooked teeth. A very few. “Well then, sir, here’s all I know.” Oh yes, he’d been waiting for that vail. “A man came for her. He gave her a note and she went with him fast enough. She had a private parlor and I furnished a bottle of wine and some bread. She seemed a bit—tired, if you get my meaning when she left.” The man came close to winking. “Imbibed a bit.”

  Alex’s fury nearly choked him. Not drunk but drugged. And the landlord would have hidden that information from him for the sake of a few coins. He had to keep in control of himself or he’d learn nothing more. “Is the parlor still free?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then show me.”

  The man led the way, dropping his book off at the desk on his way past. The inn seethed with humanity, everyone bringing their smells and noise with them. The rumbling noise of the great coaches reverberated through the building at regular intervals. Vehicles arrived, disgorging their passengers or picking them up. Yells came from outside, as people called for their luggage and servants or greeted relatives. Alex walked past it all.

  As he passed through the main room, one group seemed to be leaving and another arriving, so the effect was rather like the tide coming in and going out again. He battled his way through, gathering a few curses and keeping his hand on his purse as he followed the landlord to the private parlor.

  It was a small room with hard wooden benches and a dark table, with the stains of hard use. A plain decanter stood on the scarred table, empty but not clean. Some residue remained. Alex removed the stopper and sniffed it, and detected a tang, chemical, oily, he couldn’t quite identify it. Ah yes, now he had it. His mother used to use the substance for headaches.

  He handed it to the landlord. “What do you make of this?”

  The landlord sniffed the stopper. “It’s off, sir. Doesn’t smell like my house wine.” Deep creases furrowed between his thick brows. “What’s all this about?”

  He would tell the man what he expected to know and what would evoke the landlord’s sympathy. “My cousin is a considerable heiress. I’m afraid that someone has abducted her.”

  “You don’t say.”
The landlord stared at Alex, blank-faced.

  Alex shoved the decanter under the man’s nose. “Just smell this. That isn’t off, it’s had something added to it. Mrs. Rattigan was drugged. This reeks of laudanum.”

  The landlord of one of the most prosperous coaching establishments in London wouldn’t bother to get himself involved with an abduction plot. Not now the practice was illegal.

  He slipped his hand in his pocket, around the butt of his pistol. “I want to find my cousin before nightfall.” He kept a grip on the decanter with his left hand.

  The landlord stood in front of the door, hands on his substantial hips. His rolled-up shirtsleeves displayed impressive roped muscles. “How do I know it’s not you who’s the abductor?”

  “How do I know it’s not you?” That would ginger him up a bit. “I won’t give up until I find everyone who is behind this.”

  Finding the drugged wine gave him hope, because it meant she’d left here alive. If they wanted to kill her, they’d have poisoned her outright. With only the decanter as slender evidence, he had no case in law. He couldn’t go to the authorities yet. He needed more information.

  The landlord studied him for a moment, dark eyes thoughtful. “All right. Wait here, sir. I’ll ask the servants if they saw anything else.”

  Alex examined the room in the ten minutes the landlord was gone, scrutinizing the sparse furniture and the floor but he found nothing else. Not even a button.

  The landlord returned, closing the door carefully behind him. Alex kept hold of his gun. “I didn’t see the lady leave, sir, I just found the parlor empty and all the wine gone, so I assumed she’d drunk the wine and the man had taken her quietly home.”

  If the man had adulterated the wine, he probably dumped the remaining contents, probably out of the window. “Go on.”

  “One of the kitchen staff saw a man carrying a woman out a side entrance and into a hackney. He winked at her and said his wife was drunk and my maid thought nothing more of it.”

  Oh God. Bile rose in Alex’s throat. But a hackney meant local. He released his pistol to find his purse. He thrust a few more guineas at the landlord. “Did she recognize the hackney driver?”