Rachel heard a tiny cry of fear escape her. “I’m not lying,” she squeaked. “I don’t know a thing about Ernest Jackson’s sister.” She thought of the smock belonging to Betsey’s daughter she had shoved into her cloak pocket.
Had Burns found it? And if he had, would he have had any thought of its significance?
She pressed her arm against her side, trying to feel for the bulge in her pocket. It was there, she realized. Burns had not found the smock. She felt suddenly, inexplicably grateful.
“You’ll tell me what you know,” he said, his breath hot against her nose.
Rachel coughed back fresh tears. “I don’t know a thing, I swear it.”
“Then you’ll stay here until you’re willing to cooperate.”
In spite of herself, her tears spilled. “Please, just let me go.”
“I’m not letting you go. You can’t be trusted not to mind your own business. You can’t be trusted not to go prying into things that don’t concern you.” He began to stride back toward the door. “You can’t be trusted not to go prying into things that are best left alone.”
Chapter 36
“I’ve spoken to the watchman who was patrolling the area the night Rachel came to the bakery,” Ernest told Mrs. Ward. “He says he saw nothing.”
Mrs. Ward gnawed edgily on her thumbnail. “I’ve asked everyone in the street. No one saw a thing this morning. Most of them were away at church.” She snatched her thumb from her mouth and tucked her hand behind her back, as though she had just realized what she was doing.
“We need to go to the White Lion,” said Ernest, turning and striding down the street. “Perhaps someone there can tell us something about the man Rachel was with.”
Mrs. Ward jogged to keep up with him. “Goodness,” she said, “you certainly know your way to the White Lion, My Lord.”
Ernest managed a crooked smile. “Yes. It seems I do.”
A grin lit the innkeeper’s face as the two of them strode into the tavern.
“I know you,” she said brassily, pointing a bony finger at Ernest. “You’re that dandy what nearly fell asleep on my bar.”
Ernest pushed away a flush of embarrassment. “I’m here about Rachel Bell,” he said. “She’s in danger.”
The innkeeper’s smile disappeared. “Miss Bell? What’s happened?”
“She was here with a client several nights ago,” Mrs. Ward cut in. “Do you remember him?”
“That lass has more clients than I’m sure she knows what to do with,” said the innkeeper. “I can’t be expected to remember them all.”
The back of Ernest’s neck felt hot. “We believed she’s been kidnapped by the man.” He felt his voice rising, as he struggled to keep his composure. “We need to know what he looks like. And anything else you might be able to tell us about him.”
The innkeeper gave a solemn nod. “Like I said, I can’t be expected to remember everyone what comes in here.” He pointed toward a woman at the back of the tavern dressed in a low-cut blue gown. “But try asking Lucy over there. Maybe she knows something.”
Ernest looked at the woman. She had a faint familiarity with her. Did he speak to her the night he stumbled drunkenly into this place, desperately searching for Rachel?
The night was a haze, punctuated by the smell of rosewater and Rachel’s sharp blue eyes.
He gave a nod of thanks to the innkeeper and made his way toward Lucy, Mrs. Ward following close behind.
Lucy’s eyes lit up. “I remember you. You’re—”
“Yes, yes,” Ernest said impatiently. “I’m the dandy who almost fell asleep on the bar.”
Lucy’s lips quirked. “I was going to say the man who fancies Rachel.”
Ernest swallowed. “That too.” He inhaled sharply. “We need your help. Miss Bell is in trouble.”
“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
He pushed past her question. “I need to know if you can tell us anything about a client of hers. A man who was here at the tavern three nights ago.”
Lucy’s dark eyes hardened. “Aye, I remember him all right. Didn’t like the look of him one bit.”
Ernest exchanged anxious glances with Betsey.
“He were older,” said Lucy. “Fifty, perhaps, or sixty. Tall. Dressed in black with a silk scarf at his neck. Rachel and I, we both noticed him soon as he come in. ‘That’s scarf’s stolen’ I said. Rachel said she didn’t care. Long as there was money in his pocket, it didn’t bother her where it came from.”
Ernest shifted uncomfortably.
“I thought to approach the man,” Lucy continued, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “But he came straight for Rachel like she was the one he’d been looking for or something. Soon as he started speaking to her, I could tell she were uncomfortable. Thought she were going to tell him to leave, but she ended up taking him upstairs.” She gave a wry smile. “I suppose he had plenty of money in that pocket of his.”
Ernest let out his breath. “Why would she go with him when she knew there was something not right about him?”
Lucy gave a snort, as though he’d just asked the world’s most foolish question. “Why do you think any of us do this? It sure ain’t for the joy of it.”
Ernest felt himself grow hot.
How brutally unfair life can be. There are those of us with more money than we could ever need, and others like Rachel that have to spend their nights with dangerous men just to survive…
He felt that old hatred of the ton rearing up inside him.
“She was talking about going to the mop fair,” said Lucy, wrapping a coil of dark hair around her finger. “Said she couldn’t do this no more. She was going to find herself honest work, she said, soon as she could afford new clothes. That’s why she wanted the money so bad.” Her eyes hardened with fear. “Do you really think this man’s taken her?”
Ernest didn’t answer at once. There was no doubt in his mind this client had kidnapped Rachel. “There must be something else you can tell us,” he pushed. “Did you overhear any of their conversation? Where he lived, perhaps? Or what his name was?”
Lucy shook her head. “I’m sorry. That’s all I know. But you can be sure if he gave her his name, it weren’t a real one. That’s what wealthy men do when they come into this place. Hide behind false names. Pretend to be something they’re not.” She gave Ernest a sly, sideways glance. “You know all about that, I’m sure, My Lord.”
He felt his cheeks blaze.
Mrs. Ward pressed a hand to Lucy’s arm. “If you see this man again, I need you to tell me right away. The bakery on the corner of King Street.”
Lucy nodded. “Of course.” As they turned to leave, she lurched after Ernest, snatching his arm roughly. “You make sure you find her, My Lord. You bring her back safely.” Her eyes were wide and anxious.
Ernest gave a short nod. “I’ll find her. I promise.” He felt his stomach turn over.
“What was she thinking?” he demanded, as he and Mrs. Ward left the tavern. “She knew the man was dangerous! Surely no amount of money was worth risking her safety?”
Mrs. Ward gave him a sad smile. “It’s a different world here, My Lord. Sometimes it’s a struggle to eat or feed our families. Sometimes it’s a struggle to keep a roof over our heads.” She looked at her feet as she walked, a thread of auburn hair falling over one eye. “Sometimes we do things out of desperation. We’ve no choice.”
Guilt turned Ernest’s stomach. He had known from the beginning of course, just how much Rachel despised working as an escort. Knew she longed for a better life.
I ought to have helped her. I could have helped her eat. Helped her keep a roof over her head. I could have bought her new clothes for the mop fair…
As though reading his thoughts, Mrs. Ward said, “She wouldn’t have accepted help from you. She’s too strong-willed. I tried to help her myself once. Give her a little to mend her broken windows. She flat out refused.” The corner of her lips turned up. “Now I just give
her a free feed. My bread smells so damn good, she forgets her stubbornness a while.”
Ernest smiled crookedly. “Your bread does smell wonderful.” He dug his hands into the pockets of his coat. There were eyes on him, he realized. His silk shirt and waistcoat were drawing plenty of attention. He wished suddenly for Phillips’ old greatcoat. His appearance was making it difficult to search for Rachel surreptitiously.
“She said she passed Spitalfields Market on the way to your house. We need to start looking there.”
Mrs. Ward nodded, gesturing to the street they ought to take. “And what are we looking for? A rundown house? Every second house in this place is crumbling.”
“We’ve not much to go on, I know,” said Ernest. “But we need to begin somewhere.”
Chapter 37
Mrs. Ward was right. Almost every house they passed had broken windows or crumbling walls. Any of these places, Ernest realized, could look ominous in the flickering shadows of the street lamps.
Mrs. Ward pointed to a thin grey church spire piercing the skyline. “She thought she could see St Bartholomew’s from the house. The house has got to be close to here.”
And so, with little else to do, they went from crumbling house to crumbling house, knocking on doors and asking questions.
“Have you seen an old man in a long black coat? A woman with blonde hair and blue eyes?”
Their descriptions were so vague, so common, it was almost laughable.
“And did the woman appear to be distressed? Did she look afraid?”
The questions felt harsh and bitter on Ernest’s lips.
“Oh no, sir,” came the answer each time. “She didn’t look afraid…No, the man looked quite friendly…Kidnapped? Oh goodness me, no, the man and woman I saw were only the grocer and his wife…”
Ernest sunk wearily against the wall of a house, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion.
What was it he’d thought when the idea of finding his sister had first come to him?
How does one go about finding a woman in the heaving mess of London?
The sick feeling in his stomach began to intensify. He could live with never finding Unity. But he couldn’t live with never finding Rachel.
* * *
The house above her was silent.
Rachel had been sitting in the dark, listening to the floor creak for what felt like days. And now, silence.
I have to take my chance.
When Burns had opened the door and allowed a thread of light into the basement, she had caught sight of a sharp edge protruding from a broken chair leg. She shuffled across the earthen floor toward it, able to see nothing more than dark outlines around her.
She reached her bound hands in front of her, her fingers finding the sharp edge of the chair. Carefully, she slid the rope binding her wrist back and forth over the jagged shard of wood.
She could feel the rope loosening.
Rachel held her breath, kept sliding. And then she yanked hard, the rope falling free. She stifled a cry of excitement.
Rolling her stiff and aching wrists, she tore away the ropes binding her ankles.
And she was free.
Tentatively, she climbed to her feet. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her, and she could feel the basement roof looming low over her head. She pressed a palm to the dusty wall and made her way toward the staircase.
Holding her breath, she pushed open the door, just enough to let a sliver of light into the basement.
She stopped. Despite the silence, she couldn’t be sure whether or not Burns was still in the house. And she knew there was a chance he might not be alone.
I need a weapon.
She rifled through the shadows of the basement until she found a twisted brass candleholder. She wrapped her fist around it. It felt sturdy in her hands. Heavy. It would serve her well as a weapon.
Her knuckles white around the base of the candleholder, she made her way up the stairs, barely daring to breathe. She paused, motionless, as one of the stairs gave a loud creak beneath her.
Silence.
She kept moving. And then she was at the top of the stairs, the dilapidated house stretching out in front of her.
Rachel let out her breath. There was not a single piece of furniture in the room, and the hearth in the corner sat cold and empty. Dust lay thick across the floor, along with shards of stone she guessed had crumbled from the walls.
I was right. Burns doesn’t live here. No one lives here.
Gripping the candleholder, Rachel made her way across the empty room. Long shadows lay over the house, and she guessed it was early evening.
I need to get out of this place. Now.
The thought of spending the night here made the muscles in her neck tighten with fear.
She made her way to the window and pulled back the thin grey curtain that hung across it. She let out her breath in frustration. Thick planks of wood had been hammered roughly across the window frame. There was no way she could escape through it. She would have to find another way out.
She tiptoed across the room and pushed gently on the door. She had no thought of where it might lead. Peeking through the crack, she could see an empty hallway, as dilapidated and filthy as the rest of the house.
And then she froze.
Voices.
Men. Their words were mumbled and incoherent. Rachel recognized the low drone of Burns. But who was he speaking to?
Whoever it was, she didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was getting out of this cursed place.
She gripped the doorframe, trying to determine where the voices were coming from. From the other side of the hallway, she guessed.
Edgily, she poked her head out from behind the door, trying to see into the passage. At the far end of the corridor, she could see another room with its door hanging open. Could hear the men’s voices coming muffled from inside.
There’s the front door.
She would need to pass the men to reach it. She stepped back inside the empty room, pressing a hand to her chest to slow her racing heart.
Suddenly, she caught hold of the men’s words.
“The Marquess.”
She held her breath. Edged back into the hallway.
“What about the Marquess?” said the voice Rachel didn’t recognize. Anger in his words now. The voices were growing louder.
“He’s been prying, too. It ain’t just the girl.” A pause. “What are we to do about him?”
Rachel held her breath.
“The Marquess is no business of ours. We’ve got our orders. And those orders only involve Rachel Bell.”
“What do you mean the Marquess is no business of ours? You think getting rid of the girl is going to stop his prying? Sooner or later he’s going to find out the Duchess’ secrets.”
Rachel shifted in surprise, freezing as the floorboards groaned beneath her.
The men stopped talking.
Run. Get out now.
She darted into the hallway and raced toward the front door. Burns stepped out in front of her, a pistol in his fist. He raised it slowly.
“And where do you think you’re going, Miss Bell?” His voice was calm and controlled.
Rachel held the candleholder out in front her of her, her hand trembling in fear. A candleholder, she knew, was no match for Burns’ pistol. Her heart thundered against her ribs.
He walked toward her with agonizing slowness. “The basement, Miss Bell.” He jabbed the nose of the pistol into her shoulder. “Walk.”
Tears pricking her eyes, Rachel turned and made her way back toward the basement. Burns’ breath was hot against her neck. When they reached the bottom of the staircase, he looked down at the sawn ropes scattered across the floor. He looked up at Rachel and shook his head in dismay.
“This is no good, Miss Bell. No good at all.”
Rachel held back a murmur of fear. Burns grabbed the remains of the rope and used them to bind her wrists and ankles. The bindings were much tighter this time; the coarse
rope biting into her skin and tearing her stockings. He took the broken chair with the sharp edge and flung it out of the basement.
“What are you going to do with me?” Rachel asked, fear shaking her words.
Burns rubbed his bristly chin. “That’s not up to me, Miss Bell. Like I told you, I’m just taking orders.” He lurched suddenly toward her, making her cry out in shock. “But you’ve proven once again you can’t be trusted. And for that, I’m sure you will be punished.”
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 21