The stabbing pain in her thigh came again, and with it a faint, high-pitched cry. As in the gradual recollection of a dream she saw herself walking … Mitchell Redmond’s haughty, arrogant face … Best. She reached downwards and felt the soft irregularities of a woolen garment. A pocket. Groping inside, her hand was at once thrust against by an impatient, indignant, and very small furry head.
Charity drew forth a small, dimly seen shape. And she knew, and dropping the kitten, shrank against the squabs of the carriage, so terrified that she could not seem to catch her breath or do anything but huddle there, shaking, gasping, frantically sobbing.
The dark partition was drawn aside. Charity was dazzled by the afternoon’s brightness, but she saw a man who peered in at her. He was youngish, clean-shaven, and neatly dressed as would befit the occupant of so luxurious a vehicle.
“So madame is awake,” he said, with the hint of a French accent. “You should not weep, for we treat you most kindly, you must agree. We have not bound your hands, nor a gag placed in your pretty mouth. Although—” he added thoughtfully, raising his voice, “the lady I find not so extreme pretty as we were told, eh, my Clem?”
The screen to Charity’s left was drawn aside, and another man, a dark silhouette against the glare, said in a coarse London voice, “They never is when they’re breeding.” The screen was drawn shut again. “Fair turns me stummick to see a mort all swole up like that.”
“My Lord!” thought Charity, fighting back tears. “They wanted Rachel! They think I am Rachel!”
The Frenchman was speaking again. “But this lady is not yet very much—ah, swole, as you say. Nonetheless, madame, it is for the sake of your condition that you are coddled thus. I must desire that you be sensible and conduct yourself quietly.” He smiled faintly. “For your own sake, I ask it.”
“Wh-where are you taking me?” gulped Charity.
He chuckled. “But you first should ask, ‘Where am I?’”
“I know p-perfectly well where I am. I have been in this horrid vehicle before. I know it is Claude Sanguinet’s wicked coach that he uses for his—his murderous plots. And that you are keeping me hidden in this concealed space.” This brought hilarious laughter from both men and, because whatever happened they must not go back and try to take Rachel, she went on in desperation, “Oh, you may laugh. But when my husband comes, it will be very different.”
The Frenchman called, “Shall we tell her, my good Clem?”
“No, we won’t, me good Jean-Paul,” rasped the Englishman. “We’re comin’ inter Godalming. Shut ’er up. Else I will.”
The man called Jean-Paul leaned nearer, a gentle smile on his sallow but pleasant countenance. “Only keep it in your head, lady,” he urged, “that we have a long journey. Your babe will not like it if you are tied for many leagues. And you will not like for my crude friend to, er, shut you up. Soon, you will have the food and drink. Now—” He put a finger to his smiling lips and closed the screen.
Trembling, Charity leaned back against the squabs, closing her eyes. While she had been speaking, one hand had automatically caressed the kitten who had snuggled contentedly on the seat beside her. Now, as though sensing her terror, Little Patches scrambled up the cloak and began to butt her head against Charity’s chin. Grateful for this small comfort, Charity held the little shape close. “Poor creature,” she whispered. “They did not see you, I think. But whatever is to become of us?” She restored the kitten to her lap, fondling it while her mind strove desperately with this terrible predicament.
How Sanguinet’s agents could have confused her with her sister was incomprehensible. Nonetheless, she breathed a grateful prayer that the mistake had occurred. To have been subjected to such an ordeal as this would have completely overset Rachel’s precarious health, and if she lost the babe she and Tristram wanted so badly … There was no point in thinking of such awful things. She must escape these brutes. But that they were armed, she did not doubt. And there were the outriders. Well, there was no chance at this moment, perhaps, but it would come. It would … it must.… She blinked away fresh tears. Besides, Tristram would follow. And dear Dev. She must have been missed by now. Only … what on earth were they doing in Godalming? If she was being taken to Chateau Sanguinet they should be heading south to the coast. If they were bound for Sanguinet Towers, the great estate near Chatham that Parnell had once ruled, they would be driving northeast. Godalming lay north and west of Strand Hall, which made no sense. Unless perhaps it was an attempt to confuse their pursuers and they meant to eventually turn about.
She could hear other traffic now, and soon they were bumping over cobblestones.
“Keep yer mouth in yer pocket, missus,” said the Englishman roughly. “If I was ter break yer jaw, it’d keep yer quiet, and I don’t ’spect it would hurt yer babe neither.”
Charity shrank, trembling.
Jean-Paul called, his voice sharp with indignation, “I see no reason for such words. The lady she has ample grief to come.”
Charity closed her eyes and prayed. “Dear God, help me. Please, please, help me.”
The carriage slowed and gave a lurch. The shouts of ostlers rang out, and there was much jolting and the trampling of many hooves. Jean-Paul was conversing cheerfully with a man who said in a slow country voice that it was “a fine, fair day. Be ye goin’ far, sir?” To which the Frenchman replied, “Very far, and very fast, mon cher campagnard.” The ostler, for Charity supposed he must be such, laughed, and she wondered miserably if he had any idea how Jean-Paul had mocked him. She sat up straighter, and at once Clem growled, “Behave, woman! Or ye’ll be sorry for’t!”
Behave … If only she dared behave like the heroines in the novels she had read. If she screamed at the top of her lungs, help would come, surely? Or would they even hear her, with all the uproar and prancing and snorting of the horses, the jingling of harness, the shouts of the ostlers. Certainly, before they could reach her, Clem would strike her down. And even as she hesitated, trying to nerve herself, the coach lurched again. She felt the seat bounce to Jean-Paul’s weight, the door was slammed, and with a jerk and the pounding of sixteen hooves, they were away again.
Charity’s heart sank. She had failed. She was no heroine, but a shivering, miserable coward.…
Jean-Paul called, “Clem? You have opened your curtains again, yes?”
“No, I ain’t. No reason to. No one can stick their long nose in here.”
“The reason is because monseigneur does not wish a coach that shows closed curtains and might en effet have very many persons within. Monseigneur wishes a coach that carries one gentleman. You comprehend?”
“No,” jeered Clem. “I’m too stupid, Frenchy!”
But Charity heard him moving about and the faint increase of brightness in her stuffy prison told her he had done as Jean-Paul commanded.
On they went, bounce and rattle and sway and jolt, while the air in the central enclosure became ever hotter and stuffier and Charity’s head began to ache. Little Patches had gone back to sleep, which was as well, for Charity was very sure they would not treat the little animal kindly once she was discovered. If she was permitted to alight at the next stage, she would try to smuggle the kitten out and let her run off. “You are so pretty, tiny one,” she whispered. “Someone will take pity on you and give you a home.” She pulled her cloak gently over the kitten, closed her eyes, and tried to sleep.
She awoke with a start. The faint glow at the edges of the screens was tinged with red. It must be sunset, and still the carriage steadily ate up the miles. If they had turned back to the south coast while she slept, they would come to the end of this part of their journey very soon.
Clem was grumbling about the advanced hour and his need for sustenance. “Ain’t had a perishin’ crumb since morning,” he declared. “Abaht time we stopped fer a bite o’ supper.”
“You know where we are told to stop,” Jean-Paul pointed out. “You would not wish to vex monseigneur.”
Cle
m’s response was a growl of profanity that left little doubt as to his opinion of monseigneur.
Wondering wretchedly whether poor Best had survived; whether Rachel was making herself ill with grief and worry; whether Tristram and Dev had already set out in search of her, Charity’s eyes fell. She gave a gasp. Little Patches was very obviously feeling the effects of this long confinement. She had jumped to the floor and was scratching with one minute paw at the screen, trying to thrust her nose around the edge. Charity bent cautiously and took her up. The pink mouth opened protestingly, but they were crossing a bridge at that moment and the sounds of the wheels on old cobblestones drowned out the kitten’s cry. Trying to soothe her, Charity murmured, “I have the same need as you, little one, but whether we will be permitted to attend to it is another matter.”
“Monsieur Jean-Paul,” she said, timidly.
“The lady’s awake,” jeered Clem. “What a pity!”
Ignoring him, Charity said, “I, er, have a problem, I fear. Of—of a personal nature.”
“Cor blimey!” said Clem in an affected voice. “’Ere we is, miles from the nearest water closet!”
Charity’s cheeks burned and she longed to toss her slipper into his nasty face, even as she had done to Mr. Redmond. Redmond … a clear picture of his haughty elegance rose in her mind’s eye, bringing with it a pang of longing for family and friends, and all the dear and gentle security of Strand Hall.
Jean-Paul said reasonably, “The lady has been quite good, Clem. She is, after all, only human, and carries the babe besides.”
“A sight better orf she’d be if she didn’t,” grunted Clem.
“Not insofar as our kindly employer is concerned. He wants this babe very much, and I for myself should not wish to bring our guest to him in a poor state. No, no. We must stop for the new mama, I think.”
Charity felt chilled. Claude wanted Rachel, but more, he wanted her child! So this was the vengeance he planned for Tristram. That gallant man’s heart would break were his wife to fall again into Sanguinet’s hands, but to know his helpless child was in those same hands, to guess at the horrors the Frenchman meant to inflict … Shivering, she thought, “But Claude does not have his intended victim!” And if the worst should happen, if she herself were murdered, Tristram and Devenish would know—surely they would know, and they would be prepared. Rachel would be guarded night and day.
Her nobility faded away. She was shaking like a leaf, for however hard she tried to be brave, she could not stop thinking of the moment when she would face Claude. Of the look that would come into those hot brown eyes when he saw her.… Of the violence he might visit upon her in his rage and frustration. Her blood ran cold, and her knees turned to blancmange.
The carriage began to slow, and she recovered her wits, snatched up the kitten, and thrust her back into her pocket.
Jean-Paul pulled the screen aside. The scarlet glow of a magnificent sunset flooded in, and Charity blinked, dazzled by that warm light after the gloom of her little prison.
“Come, madame.” Jean-Paul opened the door and let down the steps, then sprang down and reached out to her. Charity took his hand and moved stiffly to stand beside him.
They had stopped on a lonely country lane. There was no sign of habitations, woods stretched out to either side, and distantly hills rose, dark against the crimson sky. The outriders walked their horses up and watched, grinning.
Clem had left the carriage also, and came around to grumble at Jean-Paul because of the delay. “Take her in them trees. It ain’t Carlton House, yer royalty, but you gotta take what’s here, as they say.” His beady eyes flickered down Charity, and she drew her cloak around her, trying to create the illusion of breadth around her flat middle.
“This way, madame.” Jean-Paul led her to the trees, Clem following.
The two men stopped and turned to face her. Shrinking with mortification, Charity pleaded, “You will allow me some privacy?”
“Privacy!” Clem spat at a passing butterfly. “Cor! Go on, missus! Or it’s up in the coach again!”
Jean-Paul said curtly, “Do you try to run from us, I shall not be responsible for you. But we will turn our backs, madame.”
“Ho, no, we won’t!” argued Clem. “You got maggots in yer head, Frenchy? When she hoists up them dainty skirts, it’ll be ter run like a rabbit!”
They glared at each other. Charity fled quickly into the trees, released the indignant kitten, and looked about her in desperation. Nothing. No lane, no cottage, no sound of voices. It was hopeless. If she ran or tried to hide they would catch her and then Clem would have his way. At the very least, they would beat her.… Despairing, she attended to the wants of nature, then glanced around for the kitten. There was no sign of her. It was as well. The poor little creature would be safer out here than—
Some way off, a woman laughed.
Charity’s heart gave a great leap, and she began to run wildly in the direction of the sound. A frantic mewing arose. She had looked too far afield for Little Patches. The kitten had evidently been playing about her skirts and now was being bounced about as she strove to climb up. Charity retrieved her and returned her to the much used pocket. The woods became denser as she ran, and she could hear no more laughter, no sound except, terrifyingly, the thump of heavy feet behind her. “Help!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, and tried to run faster. There was no response to her scream, no friendly call or sudden appearance of country people to come to her rescue. Only those remorseless boots coming ever closer. They were closing the gap, but she must get away … she must! She could hear heavy breathing now, a savage panting mutter of rage. She gave a panicked sob as a sudden jerk at her cloak wrenched her backwards and she fell.
Cursing, his face distorted with fury, Clem loomed over her.
Charity knelt, drawing the cloak around her and huddling lower, one hand upthrown to protect her face. “Please don’t … don’t!” she implored.
“I have … warn you, madame,” panted Jean-Paul, coming up with them.
Clem drew back his brawny hand.
“My—my baby!” sobbed Charity in desperation.
The Frenchman’s eyes drifted down her crouched figure. “Mon … Dieu…” he breathed.
“You want a lesson, you do,” snarled Clem.
Jean-Paul caught his arm. Following the Frenchman’s gaze, Clem’s jaw dropped. “By grab!” he gasped. “It’s—moving!”
Charity glanced down. Little Patches was settling herself again. The cloak bulged and shifted.
“I’ll be gormed!” Clem muttered, awed. He lowered his fist and took Charity gingerly by the elbow. “You got spunk, ma’am. I’ll give yer that.”
Charity fought an almost overpowering need to laugh. She clambered to her feet and at once Jean-Paul was supporting her. She said with a plaintive sigh, “I am … so very tired.…”
“Soon, madame,” said Jean-Paul soothingly, “you shall have good food and a comfortable bed. Very soon, now.”
The sky was a glory of crimson and turquoise when they emerged from the trees, and the carriage waiting on the dusty lane, the outriders standing chatting beside their horses, the verdant landscape, presented an idyllic pastoral scene well worth setting upon canvas. Usually so aware of beauty, Charity viewed it without one jot of appreciation, until— Her eyes opened wider. The sun was going down, but it was going down on the wrong side of the carriage! If they had turned southwards, the right side should be presented to that descending orb, instead of which the sun was setting beyond the left side! So they were still heading north! If they continued thus, they would eventually come to Scotland. Surely Dev and Tristram were already close behind, and Dev would follow for only a short while before he would guess their destination!
With this first faint glimmering of hope to sustain her, Charity climbed bravely up into the great black coach.
Chapter 8
Diccon set a pace that was as brisk as his tongue was still. Hour after hour they rode steadily nort
hwards, crossing beautiful Sussex and entering Surrey above Horsham, but avoiding that old town, as Diccon had avoided all main thoroughfares and populated areas. Three times they stopped to rest the horses and refresh themselves, always at secluded taverns or farmhouses, and always for the briefest possible period. On each of these occasions, Mitchell attempted to learn more of Diccon’s plans, but his questions were turned aside. The intelligence officer was morose and uncommunicative and would only repeat that since the last authenticated encounter with Claude Sanguinet had been in Ayrshire, it was the most likely place to start. He had earlier said that the castle had been under observation for a year with no sign of further activity. It therefore seemed obvious to Mitchell that more recent information must have been received, but that Diccon chose not to share it with him.
The miles slipped past, the afternoon deepened, and Diccon’s taciturnity began to gall. Instead of being welcomed as an ally, Mitchell was evidently mistrusted. He refused to acknowledge that his caustic references to the Regent might have inspired such an attitude, and began to think resentfully that he might better have stayed with Leith’s intrepid little band. At least, when they came up with Sanguinet’s coach—and he had no doubt but that they would do so—they would not only be able to rescue poor Miss Strand, but might even be able to pry some information from the men who held her.
Charity’s image haunted him. A most contrary girl, but she was gently born and had known more than her share of grief. Besides, the thought of any female being a helpless pawn in the hands of so soulless a villain as Claude Sanguinet sent a tide of rage seething through him. He consoled himself with the conviction that her captivity would be temporary. Soon, perhaps even at this moment, Tristram and Harry and the rest would gallop to her rescue. He could picture the depth of her relief and gratitude. And as soon as she was safely restored to her home, Leith would be coming after them hell for leather. They might even join forces before they reached Ayrshire.
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