Henry shook his head. “Why would he do that? Allen, see if you can find out in which direction they left.”
Allen lost no time carrying out his former captain’s order. “I’ll have them saddle a fast horse for you too.”
As Allen’s footsteps descended the stairs, Henry returned his attention to Sally. “Can you remember anything else that might help us find Miss Isabella?”
Tears welled up in Sally’s eyes again, but she shook her head. “He hit her when she kicked the door to make noise.”
Henry drew in a sharp breath and balled his fists.
“Please, Sir Henry, this isn’t the first time he’s hurt her. Find her, and quickly, please.”
Henry nodded grimly and ushered both Sally and Emily out toward Emily’s room. “Stay with my daughter. I’ll bring your mistress back, Sally, I promise.”
Once in her room, he kissed Emily’s brow. “Stay here till I come back with Isabella. Don’t even go downstairs without Thomas or William, understood?”
Emily hugged her father. “I hope you have your gun, and I hope you shoot him.”
Henry quickly checked for his gun and nodded. “Tell Grossmama what happened, should I not be back by morning, and wait for us here.”
All the bluster left Emily. “Bring her back, Papa.”
HENRY RAN INTO THOMAS AT the bottom of the stairs and ordered him to organize a watch, then hurried outside to mount the horse Allen held for him.
“The coach was seen heading toward Brighton less than an hour ago.”
Henry adjusted his stirrups. “How fast were they going?”
“A sedate trot, according to the man who saw them. We can ride much faster, even with the limited moonlight. I sent Deeks ahead to check they didn’t turn west at Bolney. Ridgeworth could double back toward the Brighton road and Wales, or London, from there.”
Henry tightened the reins and urged his horse into the night. “Good thinking.”
The road was well maintained for summer travel and the night clear. It took them less than half an hour to make it to the crossroads just south of Bolney, but waiting for the Bow Street runner to confirm they were headed in the right direction proved excruciating. Allen dismounted and made several attempts to draw Henry into conversation, but all Henry’s focus was on getting to Isabella, and self-reproach. He’d been so certain they were safe for the night, arrogant fool that he was. The horse danced nervously beneath him as Henry worried about the miserable swine raping her again.
After five minutes of waiting and ruminating, Henry couldn’t stand the inactivity any longer and turned to Allen. “He’s taking her to Warthon Castle. Ridgeworth is one of the Knights and allied with the earl. I’ll ride ahead.”
Allen had to grab the horse’s reins to stop Henry from galloping off. “And what if the maid is right and he’s taking her to Wales?”
“Then we’ll have days to catch up with them, but he’ll be at Warthon in less than two hours. I simply have to get to her in time.”
Allen saw the anguish in Henry’s eyes, heard it in his voice, and refrained from pointing out a coach was a good secluded place to hurt someone. Clearly Henry was in love with Isabella and George Bradshore had done worse to her than hitting her over the head to keep her quiet. But as emotional as Henry was at present, it wouldn’t do to let him go alone.
“Henry, you say this cretin is allied with the Earl of Warthon, and you wrote in one of your letters the earl has it in for you for some reason. If the situation were reversed, would you let me walk into this half-cocked?”
Henry knew his friend was right and, for the second time this evening, was glad to have him by his side. He relaxed the reins and nodded in resignation. “It’s just the thought of Isabella being at his mercy.” Sighing deeply, Henry eased himself off his horse. “Might as well let them rest for a moment.”
Both men busied themselves with checking their guns were loaded and their knives secure: Henry’s in his boot and Allen’s under his shirtsleeves. Harnesses and saddle straps were checked and rechecked in tense silence, but despite all his efforts to keep himself busy, Henry had never lived through a longer quarter hour.
The return of the Bow Street runner was heralded by the sound of his galloping horse. Henry mounted immediately and demanded of the night, “Where to, Deeks?”
The answer carried on the wind: “To Brighton.”
Henry urged his stallion into a gallop, consumed by the need to get to Isabella before irreparable damage was done. “Follow me! To Warthon Castle!”
ISABELLA WOKE TO A SHARP pain in her head and the consciousness that that was not the worst of her troubles. Her body ached, and tense voices, one of them George’s, argued nearby. The viscount was having words with the driver over their speed.
“Look, my good man, the moon is almost full and there is not a cloud in the sky. Surely you can risk a light gallop, or at least a trot.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but we lost the second lamp a half mile back.”
Isabella could hear the agitation in George’s voice.
“Well, relight it, man!”
Coachy sounded like he was talking to a toddler who had broken his new toy. “If the wick gets drowned with all the jostlin’, I can’t relight it. I told you after the first one went.”
The disrespect in the driver’s voice evidently infuriated George. “Just get us there before the sun comes up, you fool.”
Isabella’s arms were numb right up to her shoulders; in fact, she couldn’t move them at all. She concluded her hands were still bound and tried to pull herself upright so she wouldn’t have to smell the grubby seat her face rested on, but thought better of it the instant George fell back into his seat with an exasperated huff. If he was traveling in the coach with her, surely it was safest to pretend she was still asleep. She closed her eyes, and relaxed her body as best she could.
Meanwhile her companion muttered viciously to himself. “He will regret talking to me like that. I know just the madam who’d be happy to introduce one of his daughters to the trade.”
There was something wrong with George, something Isabella couldn’t put her finger on, but knew not to be right nonetheless. He had always been excitable and impulsive, but now there was true cruelty in him, covered by a thick veneer of genteel pride and fake concern. She needed to get away from him. George had said something earlier about liking her screaming and crying. If that was the case, he would leave her alone as long as he thought her unconscious, but it was hard to keep still when her whole body shook with dread.
Isabella tried her best to think of other things, but George’s persistent impatient huffing from the opposite bench made it impossible to ignore his presence. Luckily all his ire was directed at the driver. Eventually, offering a ten-guinea bonus convinced Coachy to do his passenger’s bidding. He urged the horses into a trot, bouncing Isabella painfully about on the worn leather bench. Not too long after, they went over a rut in the road, and a groan escaped her despite her best efforts.
George was at her side in a flash. “Aha, my pretty bride is coming to.”
Isabella shrunk into the musky seat as far as her bound hands would allow, doing her very best to keep her galloping heart and shaking body from giving away too much of her fear.
“Where are we?” It seemed imperative to find out where exactly they were and where he was taking her.
George smiled almost kindly. “We are in a coach, on our way to our wedding, dearest.” He stroked her cheek tenderly. The pretense was more chilling than if he had turned into a demon in front of her very eyes.
Her breathing became more labored as she fought down the panic. “Why are you doing this, George? Why abduct me? Why insist on marrying me now?”
George sat back on his haunches, leaning his back on the opposite bench, his hand still resting on her cheek. “So many questions, dearest!” He considered the matter, then fixed her in his unsettling stare again. “You’re quite right; I should’ve insisted on us marrying
after I took your virginity. It would’ve been the honorable thing to do. But you seemed violently opposed to the idea, and I didn’t know myself then as I do now. I had no idea your resistance was the very thing inflaming me most.”
The forced smile made another appearance. “As to why now? It’s simple: I need an heir, and your dowry will keep the wolves from the castle steps until I can collect for the next harvest. Providence dropped you in my lap, don’t you see?”
Isabella was stunned. George Bradshore, her childhood playmate, her rapist, and now apparently the Viscount Ridgeworth, had lost his mind. Even worse, she was bound and stuck with him in a coach, traveling to an unknown destination in the dead of night, and no one knew of her plight. She wondered whether there was any hope he might respond to reason, but considering how he had applied reason to his justification of her abduction, Isabella decided she’d be better served finding out where he was taking her. Perhaps she could raise the alarm there.
“You’ll need my father’s consent to obtain a marriage license. Are you taking me home?”
George pulled up onto the opposite bench and chuckled as he patted his breast pocket. “Oh, dearest, your father gave his consent seven years ago, and my bishop wrote out the marriage license on my word of it. Did you know I followed in my father’s footsteps? I had the living at Hove for nearly four years before my cousins so conveniently died and I became the viscount.”
Isabella could only shake her head in dismay. Apparently he had thought of everything. But how had he known where to find her? She herself hadn’t known she’d be at the inn. Had he followed her and taken the opportunity as it arose? The whole thing boggled the mind.
In the meantime George continued: “I might as well tell you, we’re going to Warthon Castle, and the earl, my mentor, will be our witness. He has his own reasons for wanting to see you married to me, but enough of that; suffice it to say, we’ll be his guests.”
Isabella had no idea what to make of George’s little speech, so she didn’t try. The important thing was, they were headed to Warthon Castle, and that was only a few miles from Brighton. If she managed to slip away from there, she’d be able to make it to Mrs. Curtis’s house. Isabella was relatively sure the servants would be there since the house had been rented for the entirety of the summer. How she would get away, she didn’t know, but it was reassuring to have some kind of a plan.
HENRY LED THE WAY, SPURRING his horse through the night, visions of Isabella in torment urging him on. Allen and Deeks kept pace with him. The moon still stood high enough in the sky to light their way, and Henry was anxious to reach the turnoff toward Warthon Castle before it set. The idea of missing the road and having to extend the journey by half an hour through Brighton sent cold shivers down his spine.
An hour and a half later, they reached the still moonlit turnoff, set their horses to the east Downs, and descended toward the earl’s property.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE JOURNEY TO THE CASTLE GATES HAD SEEMED endless, stuck as she was in a moving carriage with the worst company imaginable. But when Isabella was handed out of the coach, the position of the moon in the sky was not nearly as advanced as she had assumed. A sleepy footman led them into the bowels of the castle, then left them unattended to notify his master. George appeared to be a frequent visitor. He marched right to a table topped with several carafes and poured himself a generous amount of what looked like brandy. Neglecting to offer Isabella a drink, he threw himself into a wing chair and stared impatiently at the door. Isabella opted to stand in the narrow semicircle of light by the cold fireplace, her hands still bound behind her. She felt surrounded by menacing shadows in the enormous hall and waited with trepidation for the earl to appear. He never did, even as the hour of the night was revealed by a clock striking one, but he did send word eventually to call the preacher.
When George realized the earl had no plans to leave his bed until the reverend was present and ready to perform the ceremony, he let out a black string of curses, grabbed Isabella’s arm, and dragged her to the foyer, where he hollered for someone named Ben.
A dark-haired young man appeared almost immediately and bowed politely, but Isabella didn’t think him a mere servant. There was surprise in his eyes when he first saw her, and she fancied distaste fluttered briefly across his countenance when he turned to George.
“How can I be of service, Viscount Ridgeworth?”
“Ben, my boy, we need a second witness. As soon as the new reverend arrives, get your master and come with him to the chapel. In fact, get his sedan chair ready so we don’t lose any time. I’m anxious to have the deed done.”
Ben’s brow knitted together as he tried to make heads or tails of what George had said. “I take it there is to be a wedding?”
Isabella blanched at the fate George had planned for her, and it seemed the young man noticed. He smiled at her and she fancied there was kindness in it.
But George scoffed. “Of course, man. What else would I be talking about? Now snap to it; we need to ready the chapel for the occasion.”
Ben squared his shoulders. “Fresh candles are in the candelabras, they just need to be lit. And there is a pleasant arrangement of roses in front of the altar. We can send a maid to cut some for the bride’s bouquet. Are we expecting the bride’s kin?”
George waved a dismissive hand. “I certainly hope not. They can toast our health later, once we are settled into matrimony.”
Ben made to ring for a maid, but George raised his hand to stop him. “Miss Chancellor doesn’t need flowers. Is the flint still in the same place?”
“It is.”
As George went to grab a torch off the wall, Isabella cast her troubled eyes around the foyer for someone who might take pity on her plight. Her gaze collided with Ben’s. He took a cloak off a hook in an alcove and dropped something into the left pocket, then stepped behind her. “The night is rather cool; best wrap this around you.”
It was just a cloak, but to Isabella it felt like armor against George, and when she twisted her bound hands around to surreptitiously examine the pocket from the outside, her fingers found a pocket knife. She barely had time to smile her thanks before George grabbed her arm once again and dragged her out the door and toward the drawbridge into the night. But for the first time in hours, Isabella had hope.
THE CHAPEL WAS ABOUT TEN minutes’ walk away, the path crossing a cart track about halfway. As far as Isabella could make out in the dark, blinded by the torch George carried, the track led to the south around the bottom of a hill. She was almost certain it would lead to the ocean and decided to make her way along it once she got free of George. She was glad the knife was in the cloak pocket; George’s handling was so rough, she would have dropped it many times over had Ben placed it in her hands. Her fingers were numb from being bound for so long, and she tripped more than once trying to keep pace with her captor.
When they got to the chapel, George pushed her into one of the pews. “Stay there while I light the candles.”
Isabella didn’t say a word; she just waited until his back was turned. George made himself busy with the flint to light the taper. He could have spared himself the effort and lit it on the torch he’d brought, but Isabella wasn’t going to point that out. She carefully twisted the cloak around her person until she could reach her hand into the left pocket to pull out the knife. It took her a few minutes of concerted effort to open the blade and then several more to find a way to insert the blade between her bound hands. Cutting the rope proved even harder. She ended up wedging the knife between the bench and her back, and moving her hands up and down along the blade instead.
All the while George grumbled. “Servants. Will they ever do a decent job at anything? How hard is it to clean the wick after you snuffed the flame?”
The man found fault with anything and anybody, except his own behavior. Isabella was now certain he had lost his reason.
It took her quite some time to free herself, but by the time George
had cleaned the wick of every candle and lit them all, the rope holding her hands had snapped. The muscles in her shoulders and arms screamed after being forced into one position for so long; it took all Isabella’s willpower to keep them behind her back. George was much stronger than she, and the element of surprise was her best ally, should she gather the resolve to use the knife against him. She knew from their childhood games she couldn’t outrun him unless she dealt him a serious handicap. But could she stick a knife in a living being? Boys learned such things as they hunted at their father’s side, but she abhorred the blood sports so popular in the English countryside. Still, she held on to the knife, determined to get away from George before he could hurt her again.
George had meticulously arranged every item in the chapel to his satisfaction before he turned his attention to Isabella once again. “Come, Izzy.”
It was clearly a command, but the ingratiating smile was back on George’s face. Isabella almost dropped the knife in fright and immediately admonished herself for letting her mind drift. She stood to join the madman at the altar, her hands clasped firmly around the knife. When she got to within five feet of George she stopped, but he wouldn’t allow it.
“I said come here, Isabella.” He pointed to the spot right before his feet.
Taking a deep breath, Isabella took the remaining steps to stand in the spot indicated, but making sure space remained between them.
“Why so shy, my lovely bride?” George raised both hands to her shoulders to pull her closer, and in that moment something inside Isabella snapped. Before she knew what she was doing, the knife was at George’s throat, and he stepped back against the altar. She watched with a savage satisfaction as shock wiped the ingratiating smile off his face.
“What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?” Fury burned in George’s eyes, but there was also a sick excitement.
Isabella had seen that mad fire in his eyes once before, and pushed the knife harder into his skin to stop her hands from shaking. “I will cut your miserable throat before I let you touch me again.”
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