by Jane Ashford
“I was,” he said. “Tonight was to have been the culmination of my plans. It would have been the perfect revenge. Merryn is obviously besotted with you; one clear shot and I would have had my revenge on both.” His grip on the pistol tightened, and he grimaced. “No man ever had worse luck. And now I’m trapped here when I thought to be away long ago.”
“You may as well give yourself up.”
Blane’s head jerked back toward her. “Oh no, I don’t think it’s come to that just yet. You will get me away from here.”
“I?”
He seemed to regain some of his old self-possession. “You,” he repeated. “We’ll be making another short journey together, my dear.” He looked thoughtful. “Or perhaps, yes, perhaps a long one.”
Gwendeline watched him, noticing how greatly changed he was from the Blane she’d met when she first came to London. His formerly immaculate dress was crumpled and dusty. His hair was roughly cut. But his eyes showed the most frightening change. They had always been cold, mocking, and supercilious, but they now glowed with a desperate light.
“Come along,” he continued. “We’d best be gone.” He approached her, and caught her wrist, then grasped her waist. Holding his pistol to her head, he said, “Go.”
He propelled Gwendeline out through the archway, across the corridor, and into the ballroom. People were standing about in small groups, silent and nervous, and a collective gasp went up when they saw Gwendeline. Blane pushed her farther into the room and spoke in a clear, carrying tone. “You will excuse us, ladies and gentlemen. We’re just leaving. If anyone should be foolish enough to try to stop us, I’m afraid I cannot answer for the safety of the young lady.” At this, he moved the pistol so that all could see it. There were murmurs from the crowd, but no one moved.
Blane forced Gwendeline across the ballroom, pressing the barrel of the gun to her temple. The expanse of floor seemed endless to her, and the faces of the guests went by in a blur. She saw Lillian standing with Lady Merryn; their faces were white and strained, and Lillian held out a helpless hand as she passed. They went on; face after face drifted by as in a nightmare. She saw Adele clinging to the duke’s arm and the Ameses standing near them. Mrs. Ames looked terribly distressed, but she held her husband’s arm, keeping him from leaping at Blane as they neared. Mr. Ames’s face was red with rage, and he shook his fist.
They reached the opposite doorway at last—the walk had seemed eternal to Gwendeline—and went down the hall to the outer door. There was no one in this part of the house, and Gwendeline began to wonder what had become of the earl. She was suddenly horribly afraid that he lay dead in the garden.
As they stopped and Blane released her for a moment to grasp the doorknob, the outside door was pushed open. Immediately, Blane regained his hold on Gwendeline, this time with a painful grip, and pulled her back, aiming his gun at the door. Miss Brown walked into the hall.
The older woman stepped forward, holding out her hands. “Gwendeline!” she cried. “Lord Merryn told everyone to stay in the ballroom, but I remembered those notes and I had to go out. I lost sight of the men in the shrubbery, but…” Suddenly, she seemed to take in the whole scene—the gun, Blane, and Gwendeline’s terrified eyes. Miss Brown put her hand to her mouth.
Blane gestured with the gun. “We haven’t met,” he said, “But I’ve seen you occasionally. As it appears that you will be joining our little party, I must introduce myself. Mortimer Blane.” His expression hardened. “And now we’d better go.” Pushing Gwendeline toward Miss Brown and the open door he retained an unbreakable grip around her waist, the pistol to her temple once more. Miss Brown lowered her hand and stood rigid. The color had drained from her face, but her expression was resolute.
“You will come with us peacefully and try no tricks or I’ll shoot your young friend.” Miss Brown flinched but said nothing. “Now shut the door,” Blane continued. Miss Brown did so. “Walk ahead of us.” She stepped in front of them. In this manner, they traversed the garden, went out through the gate, and walked a little way down the street beyond. There were surprisingly few people about. When they reached a narrow alley just past the house, Blane directed them into it and hurried them urgently along for some time. The way was very dark and twisting, and the air smelled of garbage or worse. Under any other circumstances, Gwendeline would have worried about rats.
Finally, they approached the back of a hackney-coach standing in the alley, and Blane ordered Miss Brown into it. He shoved Gwendeline after her, leaped up himself, and shouted “Drive!” to the cabbie as he slammed the door shut. The cab started with a violence that threw both women together in a heap on the floor, but Blane, hanging onto a roof strap, only laughed and kept the gun trained on them. And thus, Gwendeline found herself once again riding through the darkness in a closed carriage at the mercy of Mortimer Blane.
Twenty-two
The cab continued at breakneck speed, and constant turns threw the two ladies from side to side. Gwendeline had no idea which way they were headed; lights flashed past the carriage window, then disappeared too rapidly to be identified. She heard the shouts of angry pedestrians as the vehicle nearly ran them down. Finally, the coach slowed, and Gwendeline pulled herself up into the seat, helping Miss Brown up and gripping the side strap firmly. Now that she could see out, she concluded that they’d passed into one of the poorer parts of town. The streets were narrow and filthy.
The jolting and swaying started again on the cobbled road. Gwendeline caught glimpses of the river between buildings, and they finally halted beside one of the docks along the Thames. Blane jumped down, holding the gun on them through the open door. When they’d descended under his direction, Blane slammed the carriage door and threw the cab driver some coins. Soon, the three of them stood alone at the head of the pier. Blane gestured down it toward the open water. “We go this way, ladies,” he said, and they moved reluctantly with him in the near-darkness.
The dock was not long; they soon reached the end and stood facing a dilapidated ship moored there. One lantern hung at the top of the gangplank, but otherwise it seemed deserted. Blane raised the pistol and pointed up the gangway. “Up,” he snapped.
Gwendeline lifted her skirts and stepped onto the narrow board. It gave with her weight, and she retreated nervously. “Go on,” snarled Blane. He cast glances behind them, as if he expected pursuit at any moment.
Miss Brown took a long look at him, then walked forward stiffly and started up to the ship. The plank swayed, but she ignored it after one involuntary tremor. Gwendeline followed her, with Blane close behind, and before long they all stood on deck. A fat dirty man in a torn shirt and dark trousers jumped up from the large coil of rope on which he’d been reclining and spoke to Blane. “’Ere. You never said nothing about no females.”
“Hold your tongue,” Blane replied. “And tell the captain to get this scow under way. I told you to be ready.”
“Scow, is it?” the man said, his tone sharpening.
“Just get us moving,” Blane said. He directed the two ladies toward the bow of the ship. The man muttered to himself, then began to shout for his fellow crew members to raise anchor. Blane escorted the women through a short passageway past the main cabin, pushed them into one of the tiny chambers beyond, and locked the door.
As his footsteps retreated, Gwendeline and Miss Brown sank down on the narrow bunk that extended along the rear wall of the cabin. “I suppose he’s headed across the Channel,” Miss Brown said. “He cannot mean to stay in England after tonight.” She turned and tried to peer out the small porthole behind her. “It’s too dark to see anything, but rescue is on the way, I’m certain. We need only keep calm and wait.”
“How will they find us?” Gwendeline replied.
“They will,” replied Miss Brown positively.
Gwendeline clasped her hands and twisted them together.
The ship was moving out into th
e river current now. Looking through the porthole, they could see lights on the near shore. The vessel gathered speed in the current, and Gwendeline watched London slip past them. For some time, they sat in silence, listening to the shouts of the sailors and their footsteps on the deck above. Gwendeline couldn’t believe this had happened just as everything had seemed to be working out perfectly.
They had been moving for about an hour when Blane returned to the cabin. He looked a little less disheveled and much more complacent. “Well ladies,” he said as he stood before them. “Tomorrow we’ll be in France, and I will have the pleasure of showing you my house there. A recent acquisition but quite comfortable.”
“You must know you can’t hold us prisoner,” said Miss Brown.
Blane smiled. “Our minds run in the same channels, madam. I’ve been considering what to do with you. It is a problem I hadn’t foreseen, I must admit. But I’m sure we can hit upon some solution.”
“Let us go?” cried Gwendeline. “We’ve never done anything to harm you.”
Blane turned to her, his smile widening. “Do you know, that was exactly my thought a few moments ago? I realized that it’s Merryn I wish to settle with, not you. I began to remember your mother and how like her you are.” His eyes briefly held a faraway look. “Thus, I came to a decision.” He stared at Gwendeline; his expression made her shrink back. “I believe we will be married, my dear,” he finished.
“What?” cried both ladies at once.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Miss Brown.
“I won’t,” insisted Gwendeline simultaneously.
Blane watched them with some amusement. “It is, of course, a plan that requires discussion,” he said. “It’s very sudden, I know.”
Gwendeline had regained her composure. “I’ll never marry you,” she said in a tone that left no room for doubt. “I’d rather die.”
“Of course you will not,” added Miss Brown. “He cannot force you to do so, Gwendeline.”
Blane’s expression hardened. “This is a rather private matter. I believe Gwendeline and I should talk it over alone.” He stepped forward and grasped Miss Brown’s forearm, lifting her to her feet. “You will excuse us, I know.” He opened the door and pushed her into the passage, addressing someone Gwendeline couldn’t see. “Take her to the next cabin and lock her in.” And then Miss Brown was gone, and Blane was closing the door once more. He sat down beside her on the bunk. “That’s better.”
Gwendeline moved to the extreme opposite end, gathering her skirts around her. Her ball gown was spotted with black stains and torn in at least one place, and her curls hung crookedly about her face, but she summoned all the dignity she possessed and said, “You can say nothing that would make me wish to marry you.”
Blane was smiling again. Gwendeline was beginning to hate and fear that smile. “Wish to?” he said. “No, I probably can’t make you wish to marry me. But that is beside the point. I think you will do so, wishes aside.”
“But why should you want to marry me? I don’t believe you even like me.”
His lip curled. “Not really,” he replied. “You are both too like and too unlike your mother. You seem to have inherited all of her mulishness and none of her interesting qualities. I don’t wonder Annabella rarely saw you.”
“You see, we should never suit,” she said.
Blane looked at her incredulously for a moment, then burst into loud laughter. “Suit!” he echoed with amazement. “She thinks we should not suit.” Gwendeline watched him uneasily, as he gradually composed himself again. “I wish to marry you for one reason only,” he said then, “to get my revenge on Merryn and all of society.” He leaned back against the side of the ship. “You’ve come to symbolize polite society for me,” he added thoughtfully. “I shall subjugate you. And Merryn will be helpless, forced to look on and suffer.” He clenched a fist exultantly. “It’s a splendid scheme. I wonder I did not think of it before.”
“But I’ll never marry you,” said Gwendeline.
Blane turned to survey her, his eyes hooded. “Ah yes,” he said. “There is that little problem.” One corner of his mouth went up. “Don’t you think these scruples are a little melodramatic, really? You made no demur about living under the protection of Lord Merryn for the season, why pretend to such nicety now?”
Gwendeline stiffened. “I was not living under anyone’s ‘protection,’ as you call it. Lord Merryn was only one of…”
“Surely you’re not going to trot out that tired story of ‘a group of your father’s friends’ once more,” interrupted the man with a sneer. “It will not wash, my dear. These generous friends do not exist, and I cannot believe you are so naive or so stupid as to think that they do. Don’t talk such fustian.”
“They do exist,” insisted Gwendeline. “They wish to remain anonymous, but they did help me.”
Blane smiled. “Anonymous, is it? Very convenient. Why should they wish it? Particularly when Lord Merryn is so open about his aid.” He shook his head. “No, even you cannot be so gullible.”
The girl set her jaw and looked away from him. “I can’t think why I’m arguing with you; after all, I don’t care what you believe. And you’re mistaken. I talked with one of my benefactors, and he assured me that he had been one of this group.”
Blane looked surprised. “Who?”
“Sir Humphrey Owsley,” replied Gwendeline triumphantly.
Mr. Blane’s face cleared. “Owsley? Impossible. Or”—he paused and looked at her narrowly—“was Merryn there?”
Gwendeline shook her head.
Blane frowned. “No? Well, perhaps he’d gotten to him by then. You should be flattered, my dear. He laid a complicated snare for you.”
Gwendeline looked down, letting her disheveled curls fall across her face, and folded her arms to hide the trembling of her hands.
Blane shrugged. He stared at her for such a long time that Gwendeline shifted nervously. “Miss Brown is an estimable lady,” he said then. “She is very dear to you, is she not?”
Gwendeline nodded warily.
“It would be a great pity,” he continued, “if some accident should befall her.” Gwendeline grew cold. “On a journey such as this, for instance, in a ship full of common ruffians, far from all her friends.”
“You are despicable!” Gwendeline found herself straining to detect any unusual noises on the ship. She heard nothing.
Blane was unperturbed. “Perhaps now you understand why I believe you will agree to marry me? These other concerns are quite irrelevant. If you continue to refuse, I seriously doubt that your friend will reach France alive.”
Gwendeline stared at him, trying to discover some sign of wavering in his face. There was none. “You cannot mean that,” she faltered. “Even you could not be so cruel.”
“No?” He smiled.
Gwendeline collapsed in the corner of the bunk.
“We’ll be wed as soon as we reach the Continent,” said Blane, and left, locking the door behind him.
Gwendeline remembered little of the rest of the voyage. She lay on the bunk, feeling feverish and miserable, for an interminable time. After a while, the ship began to toss and shift from side to side. She thought at first that she would be sick, but then she became accustomed to the motion. It seemed to echo the rise and fall of her emotions as she alternately hoped for and despaired of rescue. She retreated into a kind of tortured dream, repeatedly reliving the ruin of her life.
Hours later, the tossing lessened, and Gwendeline roused herself. She looked out the porthole, and in the predawn light she could see that they had entered a harbor. This must be France.
It seemed to take a long time for the ship to traverse the harbor and tie up at the dock, but even so, the interval was much too short for Gwendeline. When the vessel was moored at last, she turned toward the door of her cabin, expecting to hear Blane app
roach at any moment. But no one came. She was left alone to pace about the tiny room and worry about Miss Brown. Where was she?
When Gwendeline was on the verge of pounding frantically on the door to attract someone’s attention, she heard footsteps at last. She waited tensely as the key turned in the lock and the door opened. Blane entered, a dark garment over his arm. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “You will want this.” It was a dark blue cloak. “Put it on,” Blane said impatiently. “You must cover that dress. It will attract unwelcome attention.” Gwendeline brightened a little at this, but Blane noticed and crushed her small hope. “Miss Brown will remain aboard this ship until we’re ready to leave town. The captain has specific instructions concerning her.” He took back the cloak and draped it about her shoulders. “You would be well advised not to try anything foolish.” He offered her his arm, and she took it listlessly. As long as he held Brown prisoner, she could do nothing, she thought. She was trapped.
They walked out on deck, and Blane helped her down the gangplank. Once on shore, they went swiftly away from the dock and into the town. They did not enter the busy central sector, however, but kept to the poor area near the harbor. Much too soon for Gwendeline, they paused before a small stone church. “Here, my dear, is the site of our wedding,” Blane said. “But first we must stop across the way. I regret I cannot leave you for a moment to settle this detail.” He led her across the street to a low tavern and pushed the door open. He beckoned to two men drinking within, who responded somewhat sullenly, and returned to the street. “Our witnesses,” he remarked in response to her puzzled look. The men came out, and together the four of them entered the church.
A man in vestments awaited them at the altar. A large crucifix hung above him. The chamber was high and dark and smelled slightly of stale incense. Gwendeline paused. “Is this a Catholic church?” she asked before she thought. “I am not Catholic.”