A moment later, Alexandra answered, looking terrified. “Jason?” she asked, then blinked at Lady Arabella. “Oh no,” she said, reaching for Lady Arabella. “What’s happened?”
“More than just this,” Jason said. “Winnie has made an attempt on her own life and Marshall needs you at the hospital immediately.”
In a flash, Alexandra’s expression changed from anxiety to sheer, businesslike determination. With barely a moment’s hesitation, she moved deeper into the hall to fetch her coat.
“I’m going to the hospital,” she said to whoever was sitting in the parlor. “Marshall needs me.”
“Go, then, go,” Mother Grace replied.
Jason’s eyes went wide. “Mother Grace?”
A moment later, Mother Grace stepped into the hall. She took one look at Jason, then Lady Arabella, and her expression hardened. There wasn’t time for full explanations or conversations, though.
“Did Lawrence and Barsali come here?” he asked quickly.
Mother Grace blinked, then seemed to grasp what Jason was talking about. “No,” she said. “But Goddess willing, they’ve found Matty.”
“Goddess willing,” Jason repeated.
That was all they had time for. Alexandra had donned her coat and shot out into the night. Jason nodded to Mother Grace, then offered Lady Arabella his arm once more. She took it, and they were off.
Alexandra ran ahead, which Jason found heroic, considering that, like Flossie, Alexandra was expecting and likely exhausted at the end of the day. He kept as close to her heels as he could while respecting Lady Arabella’s limitations. Their odd, rushed group zipped up the hill and into the heart of Brynthwaite, drawing a few stares from the handful of men who were still out after dark. Lady Arabella gathered her collar around her chin with her free hand, seeming to hide in the fur as they ran.
As soon as they made it to the hospital, Alexandra led them on a charge through the waiting room and into the downstairs hallway.
“Marshall?” she called without breaking stride.
“In here,” Marshall shouted from the surgery where he and Jason had taken Winnie.
By the time Jason and Lady Arabella reached the doorway, Alexandra was already rolling up her sleeves and leaning over the table where Winnie lay to assess the situation.
“How much blood has she lost?” she asked, touching one of Winnie’s arms.
“Too much,” Marshall said. He glanced up, and when he noticed Lady Arabella, he started. Lady Arabella lowered her head, but before anything more could happen, Marshall said, “Take her upstairs to one of the private rooms. We’ll see to her as soon as Winnie is stable.”
“Right,” Jason said. He tugged slightly on Lady Arabella’s arm to indicate she should come with him.
Lady Arabella stood where she was for a moment, watching with wide eyes as Alexandra and Marshall went to work unwrapping Winnie’s hastily bandaged wrists.
“Stitches?” Alexandra asked.
“We’ll have to repair the arteries first,” Marshall said. The two of them worked in perfect concert.
“Come along, Lady Arabella,” Jason said, gently moving her out of the way. “This isn’t a sight for a lady.”
Lady Arabella blinked and seemed to come out of a trance. “I’ve seen too many things lately that aren’t sights for a lady,” she said, sniffling slightly in the politest version of weeping Jason could imagine. He walked her to the stairs, but she stopped him at the bottom. “I know where the private rooms are, Mr. Throckmorton,” she said. “I can take myself there to wait. I thank you for your help.”
Jason frowned. “It was George, wasn’t it?”
Lady Arabella swallowed and glanced down without answering.
“He’s a rotter and a cad,” Jason growled. “Any man who would do this to a woman as lovely as you should be strung by his balls from—” He cleared his throat as he remembered with whom he was speaking, a hot flush of embarrassment splashing across his face. “Don’t you worry,” he went on, hoarse with awkwardness. “You’ll be safe here. You have friends who will keep you safe indefinitely. My hotel, any of my hotels, are at your disposal.”
Lady Arabella raised watery eyes to Jason and nodded, but she fled up the stairs without saying anything further. He stood where he was for a moment, balling his hands into fists and wishing George Fretwell was standing in front of him, before marching back to the door of the surgery.
Marshall and Alexandra were still hard at work.
“I’m heading back to the hotel to see if Flossie has heard anything about Lawrence and Hoag,” he said. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
Marshall nodded in acknowledgement, but kept his focus on Winnie. That was all Jason needed. He strode down the hall and back out into the cold night. Darkness had settled in fully, and only the light from the sparsely-set streetlights illuminated the way as he crossed the street and marched on to the hotel. He had more lights, electric lights, at the hotel, and they were enough for him to make out the figure of George Fretwell turning into the hotel’s garden just a few yards before he got there.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jason demanded, catching up to the man. The heat of his fury was more than enough to insulate him against the frigid winter’s night. He had half a mind to draw one of his revolvers on the man.
A moment later, Jason spotted Constable Burnell and one of his young deputies several feet in front of Fretwell and was glad he didn’t draw.
“I’m looking for my wife,” Fretwell turned back and answered him, a dangerous look in his eyes. “She’s run away.”
“And why would she do that?” Jason asked, marching straight up to Fretwell and standing toe-to-toe with him, towering above him.
“She’s gone soft in the head,” Fretwell answered, looking only marginally intimidated. His mouth tweaked to one side in a grin. “But of course you would know all about that.”
Jason debated whether it would be worth the inevitable hassle if he punched Fretwell and cracked his nose. It would be immensely satisfying, but Flossie had already paid off one ass whom he’d given exactly what was deserved and Jason would just as soon not waste money on Fretwell.
“If you were so careless as to misplace your wife, why are you at my hotel?” he asked instead. He wouldn’t give Fretwell the thrashing he deserved, but neither would he help the lout discover Lady Arabella’s whereabouts.
“Where else would she go?” Fretwell asked, heading on to the hotel’s front door and into the warmth of the lobby. “There are no more trains running tonight.”
“Does she have friends in town?” Constable Burnell asked, rubbing his hands as they came to a stop inside the lobby.
“No,” Fretwell answered, craning his neck to look around, as though Lady Arabella would be posing on the stairs or framed in the doorway to the dining room. “But she took a large sum of money from me,” he went on. “Presumably to pay for a room here.”
Jason fought to hide his smirk. Good for Lady Arabella, taking money with her. Jason was even more inclined to keep his mouth shut about her true whereabouts.
“Daniel,” he said, striding to the front desk. “Has Lady Arabella Richmond checked into the hotel?” he asked, deliberately using Lady Arabella’s maiden name.
“No, sir,” Daniel said after only a brief glance at the reservation book. “No one’s checked in since this morning.”
The briefest flash of disappointment made Jason frown. Winter was murder on the bottom line of any hotel as few people ventured so far north for pleasure in January. But there were other things to focus on.
“I don’t believe you,” Fretwell said, narrowing his eyes and glaring at Daniel. “Let me see that book.”
“I have no reason to be false with you, sir,” Daniel said, his Irish accent more pronounced, betraying his annoyance.
“Stupid Mick,” Fretwell grumbled. “Let me see it.”
Jason was on the verge of telling Fretwell off and sending him on his way when F
lossie swept into the room, Armstrong right behind her.
“But there must be something we can do,” Armstrong was in the middle of saying. “Surely the police—” He stopped short at the sight of Constable Burnell and his deputy in the lobby. “Oh, the police.”
“What about the police?” Constable Burnell asked, drawing himself to his full height.
“There’s a man on the loose,” Armstrong said, looking as though the fact were a treat. “He’s—”
“We have a thief on the loose,” Flossie interrupted him, sending Jason a sharp, long-suffering look. “But as I’ve explained to Mr. Armstrong, theft is not so very unusual, and things have a way of turning up eventually.”
“But that’s not what—” Mr. Armstrong started.
“Why are you still here?” Jason asked, leaving Fretwell to march across the lobby. He grabbed Armstrong by the elbow and marched him toward the door. “We said that we would handle this on our own,” he muttered.
“But it’s such a dangerous situation,” Armstrong hissed back at him. “A murderer? A kidnapping? Surely the police—”
“Willy,” Jason bellowed, turning toward the downstairs hall.
Sure enough, Willy had been watching the entire scene from just around the corner. He leapt into the lobby with an eager expression as soon as he was called. “Yes, Mr. Jason. I’m right here, Mr. Jason,” he said.
“Fetch Mr. Armstrong’s coat,” Jason ordered.
“But I’m staying here at the hotel tonight,” Armstrong said, breaking into a smile that was utterly out of place, given the tense atmosphere in the room. “I have a room and everything. Room Two-three-three, with a splendid garden view. It’s never too early to get a look at what the competition is doing, eh?”
Willy retreated to the desk, looking confused. Jason let out a breath and would have rolled his eyes if Fretwell hadn’t marched back up to Constable Burnell.
“I want this hotel searched,” he said. “I want my wife found. She had no right to run out on me the way she did.”
“And why did she?” Flossie asked, crossing her arms. The fire in her eyes said that she knew something about Lady Arabella and her reasons for leaving Huntingdon Hall.
“She’s gone mad,” Fretwell told her, looking down his nose at her. “Some pathetic, female concern, no doubt, born of the fact that she’s barren.”
“I say, man,” Armstrong said, suddenly flustered. “Is that really the sort of thing to speak about in public?”
“Who are you?” Fretwell asked, glancing up and down Armstrong’s form and evidently finding him wanting.
Armstrong put on a jolly smile all the same and held out his hand to Fretwell. “Colin Armstrong, hotelier, at your service.”
Fretwell ignored the gesture and turned back to the police. “My wife is my property, and until she has been returned to my house, I expect this to be treated as foul play.”
“And which house would that be?” Flossie asked, arms still crossed. “Surely you can’t mean Huntingdon Hall. It belongs to Lord Gerald. You are a guest there.”
“And you are impertinent to a fault,” Fretwell snapped at her. “I want that woman arrested.” He pointed at Flossie and glared at Constable Burnell.
“On what charges?” Flossie laughed.
“Can we stick to the business at hand?” Constable Burnell interrupted. Jason thanked heaven the man was competent enough not to entertain Fretwell’s ridiculous demands.
“Search the hotel as much as you want,” Jason said, stepping in to take control of the situation. “Although I ask that you not disturb my guests in the process.”
“We’ll disturb everyone if it means finding my wife,” Fretwell said.
“You can have the numbers of the rooms that are occupied, but I request that you knock on the doors rather than barging in, and that you respect my guests’ privacy,” Jason said.
“There you go.” Fretwell flung out a hand at Jason. “Clearly this man and his tart are hiding something.”
“I beg your pardon,” Flossie said.
“Why would we hide anything?” Jason asked. Perhaps it would be worthwhile to punch Fretwell after all. “What reason would I or Miss Stowe or any of my staff have to hide Lady Arabella in the hotel?”
“He has a point,” Constable Burnell said. Fretwell looked as though he would erupt, but Burnell went on with, “We can still search. But I will respect the privacy of your guests, Mr. Throckmorton.”
“Good.” Jason nodded. “Daniel, please accompany Constable Burnell on his investigations.”
“Yes, sir.” Daniel jumped out from behind the desk and led the way upstairs. Constable Burnell, his deputy, and an irate Fretwell followed.
As soon as they were gone, Jason sped to Flossie. “She’s at the hospital,” he said, hopefully quietly enough that Armstrong wouldn’t hear.
Flossie nodded and opened her mouth to ask a question, but Armstrong beat her to it.
“What is going on this evening?” he asked, throwing out his hands. “A kidnapped woman, a runaway wife. What else are we to expect?”
“Flossie,” A shrill shout came from the downstairs hallway. A moment later, Betsy stormed around the corner, staring daggers at Flossie. “I’m through with being cast aside. You owe me, and I want my due now.”
Flossie
Flossie closed her eyes and rolled them, her jaw tense. With Matty in dire danger, Lady Arabella apparently attempting to escape George Fretwell, and the milder but still persistent annoyance of Mr. Armstrong and his nosiness, the last thing she needed was her sister causing trouble.
“Could this wait until a more convenient time?” Flossie asked, opening her eyes and staring daggers at her sister.
“So I’m inconvenient, am I?” Betsy balked, pressing a hand to her chest as though offended. “Your own flesh and blood? Your sister who has fallen on hard times?”
“Oh dear,” Mr. Armstrong interrupted, inching over to join the conversation. “I didn’t realize you were in difficulty, Miss Stowe. Is there anything I can do to help?”
If not for the genuine altruism in Mr. Armstrong’s expression, Flossie would have given the man a piece of her mind for interfering. “Betsy has no more fallen on hard times than I have, Mr. Armstrong,” she said, then turned to her sister, planting a fist on her hip. “In fact, I have it on good authority that she has been making up tales to tell me for months now as a means of filling her already quite comfortable purse.” She arched a brow at Betsy in challenge.
The truth was written all over Betsy’s face. Her eyes went wide, although more at the embarrassment of being caught than in indignation, and her cheeks pinked. “Who told you such lies?” she stammered. “I’ve never been so hurt in all my life.”
“I’ve had letters from several friends back home,” Flossie told her, hesitant to reveal their names. There was no telling what Betsy would do when she felt she’d been wronged. “Several who say you’ve taken up with Bob Keller.”
“Bob Keller?” Betsy’s back went straight and she made a face, but her cheeks turned even pinker.
“Who’s Bob Keller?” Jason asked. He wore a frown and Flossie could tell he had grown impatient with the scene, but she also knew he hated being left out of gossip.
“He’s the butcher back home,” Flossie told him, then turned to Betsy. “The married butcher.”
“I would never take up with a married man,” Betsy insisted, doing a surprisingly good job of appearing offended. “Besides, he smells like sausage.”
“I suppose he would, being a butcher,” Mr. Armstrong said, rubbing his chin as though giving the situation far more thought than it warranted.
“The point is,” Flossie said with a sharp sigh, “You don’t need money. You have plenty. Papa and Mama are still working, and unlike your false reports, their factory is in no danger of closing.”
“That’s not true,” Betsy said, a disturbing flash of truth in her expression. “I heard from Bob who heard from Lew Harris who heard fr
om Mr. Tanger himself that there isn’t as much demand for ploughs as there used to be, what with the new farm machines.”
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Armstrong asked, blinking.
There wasn’t time for the discussion. Not with Matty in danger and the police searching the hotel for Lady Arabella, but still, Flossie found herself answering, “My parents work in a factory in Lincoln that produces ploughs. And I don’t see how the need for ploughs will diminish any time soon,” she added for Betsy’s benefit. “Now if you will excuse me, Jason and I have real, important work to do. You have your room, Betsy, and I suggest you make use of it.”
Flossie glanced to Jason and tried to move toward the stairs, intending to chase after Constable Burnell, but Betsy stopped her.
“You’re just an ungrateful miser,” she said. “Look at everything you have, that ruby pendant and everything else, and you refuse to share any of it with me?” She gestured at the opulence of the hotel’s lobby.
“None of this is mine,” Flossie snapped, turning on her. “This is Jason’s hotel.”
“Yes, and you’re Jason’s lover,” Betsy hurled back, crossing her arms.
“Oh, my,” Mr. Armstrong blurted, going red. “That’s not entirely appropriate to speak about publicly, is it?”
“I make no secret of what Flossie means to me,” Jason said in a harshly defensive tone that made Mr. Armstrong flinch even harder.
“You were quick to lift your skirts for him,” Betsy said, nodding tersely to Jason. “Why shouldn’t we both benefit from that?”
“I love Jason,” Flossie hissed, lowering her voice and glancing around to be sure their previous audience had gone. “I didn’t get involved with him for money.”
Which, of course, was a tremendous lie. Money was exactly the reasons he’d gone to bed with Jason at first. Money that she’d sent to Betsy back when she believed the tripe her sister wrote to her. In fact, without Betsy’s lies, she and Jason might never have come together. But that didn’t mean she was grateful or that Betsy deserved anything.
“Go back to your room,” Flossie said, stepping closer to Betsy. She would grab her sister by the arm and drag her away if she had to.
The Brynthwaite Boys: Season Two - Part Two Page 21