by Lauren Smith
“My dearest child, I fear I bear unhappy tidings.”
“What did he say?” Portia demanded.
“I know you believed he had feelings for you, but for some reason, the gentleman would not have you. I offered ten thousand pounds a year, and he still would not accept.”
Portia’s heart sank. She wanted Brodie Kincade. Why could she not have him?
“Did you offer more?”
“I did, my dear. He was quite determined not to marry at all.”
“Not marry at all? That seems rather silly. We must change his mind.” Portia wasn’t deterred by this setback.
Her father gazed at her in worry. “Well, I’m not sure that’s possible.”
An idea occurred to Portia. She knew that it was a wicked scheme, but she had few options left if she was to find a way to make Brodie hers.
“We must, because I carry his child, Papa.”
“What?” Jackson stared at her, a horror-stricken expression upon his face. “But you said . . . How? How did he do it? When?”
“I’m sorry I was not honest with you, but we did not meet at the assembly. We met a fortnight ago, and he seduced me. I only discovered I was in the family way yesterday.” She felt dreadful having to lie to her father, but she had to have Brodie as a husband.
A fierce light glowed in Jackson’s eyes. “Did he force himself on you? I shall kill him.”
“No! He didn’t force himself on me. You know how passionate I am, Papa. Just as you and Mama were.” Whenever she wanted to change her father’s mind on something, it always helped to remind him of her mother.
“I do. You are so like me in that way.” He cupped her face. “My darling child, soon to be a bride and mother.” Worry creased his brow. “I will find a way to bring him here this evening, but I’m not sure how to convince him to marry you. I wish I could duel with him instead.”
“No, Papa. I love him so much. You mustn’t say such things.”
“I suppose.” Jackson stroked his chin. “If I could get him here, there are ways of convincing him. If I was able to bring a man of the church here too . . .”
“Yes, that’s what we shall do,” Portia agreed. “Bring him here tonight, and we will convince him that marriage is the best course of action.”
Portia was certain that if she was able to get Brodie in bed she could change his mind about marriage. She was not ignorant of the ways of men and women. Her sister, Lydia, was far more innocent. Portia knew that in order to be effective with men, one ought to be acquainted with one’s own body and how best to use it as a weapon. It was perhaps more mercenary than romantic, but she had watched her sister have three unsuccessful seasons living on romantic notions alone, and she would not follow her down that path.
It was a pity, for Lydia was very sweet and endearing—when she wasn’t lecturing Portia about her behavior.
“I’m afraid I must go, my dear.” Her father patted her shoulder affectionately. “Stay here and wait for me to return. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good girl.” He brushed her cheek with a fatherly kiss and was off again, leaving Portia alone.
She had only a little time to make plans, because she knew without a doubt that Lydia would put a stop to her scheme once she learned of it.
I must find a way to distract Lydia. Keep her away.
Portia rushed to her room to pen a letter. By tonight, Brodie Kincade would be here, and she would soon be married to the handsome Scot.
Lydia returned home late that afternoon after an enjoyable time at the Pump Room, where people sampled the healing waters in Bath. She found Portia most anxious at the door the moment she entered.
“Thank heavens, you’ve returned! You’ve received an urgent letter.” Portia pressed the already opened letter into her hand.
“What? Who from?”
“Lysandra,” Portia replied. “The messenger who delivered it said it was a matter of deep importance.”
Puzzled, Lydia opened the letter and skimmed its contents. It was a short missive. Lysandra said she was returning to London immediately and needed Lydia to meet her there to discuss a personal matter.
“I’ve had a trunk and valise packed for you. I hope you aren’t angry with me for reading the letter ahead of time.” Portia turned apologetic eyes to her sister.
“No, no, it’s quite all right.” Lydia noticed the two travel cases that were sitting by the stairs. A large trunk and a smaller valise. It was unusually thoughtful of her sister. Lydia had spent two hours at the Pump Room with Lysandra that very afternoon, and she’d made no mention of leaving. What had changed in the last few hours? Whatever it was, it must be serious.
“I shall ring for the coach.” Portia rushed off, and Lydia thought she glimpsed a hint of a smile a moment before Portia turned her back and left.
Lydia was not devious like her little sister, but she was not without her own cleverness. She left the house again, walking on foot a short way before she hailed a hackney to take her to Lysandra’s residence. Half an hour later she was ringing their doorbell, which was soon answered by the butler.
“Is Miss Russell at home?”
“She is. Shall I inform her that you are here?”
“Yes, please. I would very much like to speak with her.”
“Of course.”
Lydia toyed with the handles of her reticule while she wondered what Portia might be up to.
Lysandra came down the stairs, wearing a lovely walking dress of hunter green. She wore a light apron around her skirts, and it bore a few dark ink stains. “Lydia? Did you forget something at the Pump Room?”
“I . . . No . . . It’s just a rather curious thing.”
“What is?” Lysandra cleaned her hands on the cloth a footman discreetly passed to her so that she might remove some of the ink upon her fingers.
“When I returned home, Portia presented me with a letter, supposedly from you.”
“From me? Well, I have been writing, as you can see, but not to you.” Lysandra looked a little embarrassed. “I was writing to the Royal Astronomical Society.”
“So you are not to leave for London on urgent business?”
Lysandra’s brows rose. “What? No.”
Lydia removed the letter Portia had given her and held it out to her friend. Lysandra read its contents, frowning.
“It looks like my handwriting, but I’ve written no such letter to you.” Lysandra pointed to the letter. “If I had, there would be smudges on the letter, because I stained my forefinger. Whoever wrote this has made an excellent replica of my writing in hopes of tricking you.”
“Portia,” Lydia almost groaned. “What are you up to now?”
“Indeed, that is a good question.” Lysandra’s brows drew together. “She wants to lure you to London. Why?”
“Not to London, but away from our house. She even had my trunk packed. I suspect that she’s obsessing over Mr. Kincade and how to entice him into marriage, but I don’t have the faintest idea why she would want me out of the way.”
“She must be up to something rather serious, then.” Lysandra bit her bottom lip as she thought the matter over. “You’d best hurry home and see what she’s up to. Take our coach.”
“Thank you.” Lydia embraced her friend and rushed outside to wait for the Russell coach to be prepared. She had a sense that whatever her sister was up to, it had to do with Brodie Kincade and finding a way to entrap him in marriage. She could only hope that whatever scheme her younger sister had in mind had not yet been set in motion and that Lydia would be able to stop it.
4
Jem Webster and three of his men lingered in the shadows inside the tavern as they kept a careful eye on their intended target, a tall, dark-haired Scotsman who was drinking heavily with a blond-haired fellow who looked equally dangerous.
Harvey watched his boss carefully. “I don’t know about this, Jem.”
“We took the money, and there’s more where that came from
when we bring Mr. Hunt that man.” Jem nodded subtly in the Scot’s direction. He could understand the reservations his men had about tackling the fellow, given his size and muscled build, but he also knew that they would do just about anything for money. “I’ll not pass up an opportunity for that kind of coin.”
Jem stroked a hand along his scruffy jaw. It had been a lean few years working at various odd jobs, usually underappreciated and always underpaid. The best work only came when it was a bit out of the gaze of the law.
So when the fancy Mr. Hunt had presented his need for a group of men to bring him a Scotsman by the name of Brodie Kincade by this evening, Jem had accepted it without a second thought. Of course, that was before he had a chance to lay eyes on the man. Still, the money was too good to pass up. If he and his men got a bit bruised, it was worth it.
“There are four of us,” Jem reminded Harvey. “He can’t fight us all and win.”
Harvey, a tall, burly fellow, rolled his shoulders and tried to look more menacing. “I hope you’re right, Jem. My jaw is only just healed from the last job.”
Jem rolled his eyes. “Well, that was your own fault for falling face-first onto that table.”
“I was thrown by a bloke we tried to grab, Jem. You sure know how to pick ’em.”
“Just be ready, Harvey.” Jem ignored his second-in-command’s complaints.
Jem and his three men moved deeper into the tavern, and at Jem’s subtle direction, they all took seats at the table beside the Scotsman and his friend. It had taken the better part of the day to locate the man called Brodie Kincade, but they finally had. Now the challenge lay in how to catch the man.
A comely wench approached their table. He and his men ordered ale and stew, and the wench wandered off to check on the other patrons. Jem carefully strained his ears to listen to Kincade and his companion.
“You know,” the blond man said, “I think we ought to return to London.”
“Why’s that?” Kincade asked.
“It’s that business with the chit, the one whose father came to see you today. Damn if it doesn’t strike me as odd.” The Englishman played with his glass, contemplating.
Kincade leaned on the back two legs of his chair. “Odd? In what way?”
“If a man is bold enough to ask you to propose to his daughter . . . well, it’s highly improper. And if a man has resigned himself to such conduct on behalf of his child, it makes one wonder what else he would resort to, with the proper motivation.”
“Ah, I ken what you mean. You think he might try something else?”
“I do. I fear he might do something reckless. Not that I can say for sure, ’tis simply a feeling in my gut.” The blond Englishman lowered his voice. “Or perhaps it is simply this ale. Still, I think we should go back to London.”
Kincade reached for the empty pint glass the blond man held. “We can leave tomorrow, then. Bur first, another round?”
“Yes, yes.” The Englishman passed his glass to Kincade, who stood.
Jem was struck with sudden inspiration.
“Harvey, pass me the bottle of laudanum,” he whispered. Harvey discreetly passed Jem the dark-blue bottle from his coat pocket. Jem stood and walked toward the bar, standing close to Kincade while the man waited for his glasses to be filled. The man nodded when he received them, then returned to his table.
Jem bumped into him with the practiced ease of his cutpurse youth, draining half the bottle into the man’s glass before muttering an apology and moving away. He returned to his table and signaled to his men to drink their ale, but they did not empty their glasses. After watching the Scotsman, they all knew he was still likely to put up a hell of a fight. Jem settled in to wait for his prey to weaken.
Brodie was secretly rather glad to be returning to London. He did not, however, like to feel as though he was running away from Jackson Hunt and his troublesome daughter. A Kincade never backed down from a fight. He might choose not to fight, he might merely hold his ground, but to run with his tail between his legs? Over a girl with stars in her eyes? It was a bit much for a man to stomach. Nevertheless, Bath had proved to be far less entertaining than London. It was too . . . safe.
Taking a deep drink of his fresh ale, he listened to Rafe talk about his exploits from his time as a highwayman. His elder brother, Ashton, had been holding tight to the family’s purse strings, and so Rafe had been robbing rich travelers in the fifty-mile radius around the Lennox family estate for the last two years. He was always careful to choose those who could afford such involuntary donations to his cause, or those who Rafe knew to be worthy of being brought down a bit. He also did it as much for the thrills as he did for the coin.
“So there I was, pistol aimed at this grumpy old chap, and he has the bloody nerve to tell me off when I’d only asked him for his gold pocket watch.”
“What did you do?”
Rafe snickered. “Let him keep the watch, but I might have left him in his underthings and made off with his clothes.”
“And what did you do with those?” Brodie asked.
“There was an old beggar who sits outside a traveling coach inn a few miles away. I gave him the lot.”
“That’s rather kind of you, for a highwayman.” Brodie chuckled.
Rafe shrugged. “Yes, well, it’s not always about the money.” Rafe finished his ale and sighed. “Well, shall we head home? It’s better to get an early start. I would like to give my valet a decent amount of time to pack. Otherwise, Timmons complains like a mother hen.”
“Aye. I imagine Alan would like the same.” Brodie found it was a new experience to have his whereabouts and his plans affect the life of a servant.
Brodie and Rafe stood. “I’ll be a moment, Brodie.” Rafe nodded toward the door where he could go through and relieve himself.
Brodie leaned heavily against the chair back, his hands braced on the thick wood as he drew in a slow breath and wiped his mouth. Why had this last pint tasted a little bitter? Everything began to feel a tiny bit fuzzy. Fuzzy was a silly word, but his mind seemed suddenly full of wool. Warm, fuzzy wool. It was getting damn hard to string any thoughts together.
He looked about the tavern, but his throat felt sick, and his tongue was swollen. Something was wrong. He’d never been drunk like this on so little alcohol. He’d barely even had half of that fourth drink. He had to find Rafe.
Brodie stumbled across into the hall to search for his friend.
“Need some help?” A man appeared at his side.
“I’m fine,” he growled. The man had the air of a cutpurse about him.
“Seems to me you’re not. Christ, you’re a big bloke, ain’t you?” The man’s hands barely closed around Brodie’s upper arm.
“Let go of me.” Brodie jerked free and turned away but stumbled into the wall, leaning heavily on it for support. Three more men filled the hallway, blocking his exit.
“You better get out of my way,” Brodie warned, his hands curled into fists.
“Now, now, ’tis easier if you just come with us.” The man behind him grabbed his arm again. Brodie didn’t waste another second. He swung a fist, catching the man on the jaw. He went down like a rock, thudding on the floor.
“Bring him down!” someone shouted. An arm grabbed him around the neck, trying to choke him. Brodie tightened his neck muscles and slammed the man against the nearest wall. The other two men converged on him, striking every spot they could reach. To his horror and shame, Brodie sank to his knees, still gasping for breath as the world blacked out around him.
He came to minutes later it seemed—or maybe it was hours. His limbs were stretched out, and his body was being roughly handled as he was dragged down a darkened hallway. His vision tunneled in and out as he struggled to stay conscious, but it was no use. Whatever these men had done—and he knew they had indeed done something to him—he wasn’t able to fight back.
Having finished relieving himself in a chamber pot, Rafe came out into the hall, only to see something he�
��d never expected to see in Bath. Four men were dragging Brodie away like a stunned calf.
His friend hung limp as a sack of flour in their hold. Another man might have run at them or cried for help, but despite his reputation, Rafe was not so reckless as many believed him to be. He followed the men into the street, sticking to the shadows in order to remain unseen. They lifted Brodie into a hackney.
“Bloody hell.” This was no simple brawl Brodie had somehow lost. This was an abduction. Rafe glanced about and saw another passing coach. He waved it down and instructed the driver to follow the abductors at a discreet distance. Once settled inside, he wondered what the devil Brodie had gotten himself into.
When the coach stopped, Rafe slipped out and handed the driver his fare before he got his bearings. They were at Royal Crescent, the most expensive and exclusive area in Bath. Not at all the sort of place one expected to see four rough men hauling an unconscious Scotsman out of a coach. The men carried him up some stairs and into one of the elegant homes on the curved street.
Rafe waited several long minutes in the mews two houses away while he decided what to do next. The front door opened again, and the four men left. There was no sign of Brodie, which meant he must still be inside.
Rafe crept along the street until he was standing in front of the residence. A few lamps were lit near the windows facing the street, but he could see no one inside. There had to be a way into the house. The servants’ entrance, perhaps? He would find a way inside to rescue his friend. He could only hope that the bastard who’d taken the Scotsman had no immediate plans to harm him.
Brodie groaned as he came awake and tried to clear the fog in his head.
“How long will he be out?” a voice asked. A familiar voice.
“I’d say he’ll be in and out for another half hour. Better give him a mouthful of this if he gets rough,” a scratchy voice said. Brodie recognize that voice as well. It reminded him of dark halls and choking hands.
“Er . . . Right. Well, thank you, Mr. Webster. Here’s the remainder of your payment.”