Chapter 38
The last of the light was draining quickly, and the streets were bathed in long shadows. Betsey wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.
Her family would have returned home from the river long ago. She knew they’d be wondering where she was. If she didn’t return soon, she knew her husband would begin to worry something had happened to her too.
“I’m sorry, My Lord,” she said. “I wish I could stay out here all night looking, but I’ve got to get back to my family. My husband will be starting to worry.”
The Marquess nodded. “Of course.”
Betsey watched him turned up his collar against the cold. She hesitated. “Perhaps you might come with me? Have yourself a little tea and supper?” The moment the words left her lips, they sounded foolish.
What am I thinking? This is a nobleman. How could I think for a second he might wish to have supper in my cramped and overcrowded house?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was too—”
“Thank you,” he said. “A little tea would be wonderful. Although I’m not sure I could manage any supper at the moment.”
“No,” said Betsey. “Nor could I.” She held his glance for a moment, before gesturing down the street. “It’s this way.”
* * *
Mrs. Ward unlocked the door beside the bakery. A narrow staircase led up to the rooms above the shop. Ernest could see the warm glow of a lamp flickering at the top. He caught the lingering smell of baking bread.
Mrs. Ward gestured to the stairs. “Please, My Lord.”
Her voice was thin and edgy.
Concern over Rachel, or concern over inviting me inside?
He hated that she might feel so uneasy over the thought of him being inside her house. He gave her a reassuring smile and began to climb up to her living quarters.
Mrs. Ward pushed open the door at the top and ushered Ernest into a cramped living area. A rickety table took up most of the room, ninepins were strewn across the floor and a child’s cloak draped over a chair. The room smelled of wood smoke and tallow.
The moment they reached the top of the stairs, a tall, dark-haired man came barreling out of the kitchen. “Betsey,” he gushed, gripping her hands. “I was worried. Where have you been?”
Mrs. Ward let the man pull her into a gentle embrace, then explained in a soft murmur, all that had transpired.
Rachel in trouble.
Kidnapped.
Ernest felt a chill go through him at her words.
“Do you think it that client of hers?” the man asked, his voice low and anxious.
Mrs. Ward glanced at the three young children playing with knucklebones by the fire. “Perhaps we might speak of it later.”
Ernest felt the man’s eyes on him. Mrs. Ward turned to face him. “This is—”
“Ernest Jackson,” he cut in before Mrs. Ward could inundate her husband with a barrage of titles and formality. “I’m a friend of Miss Rachel Bell.”
The man gave his hand a firm shake. “Mr. Jackson. I’m Betsey’s husband. Matthew Ward.”
Mrs. Ward made her way to the children, bending to kiss each of them on the cheek. Their little voices began to chirrup all at once, as they pawed at their mother and told her tales of boats and watermen.
“The tide was in, Mama!” cried the little boy Ernest guessed to be seven or eight. “And the boats went so fast they nearly went straight past the docks!” He grinned, revealing a gap where his front teeth had been. “The ladies in furs were shrieking and everything!”
Mrs. Ward smiled. “It sounds like quite an adventure.”
Mrs. Ward looked over her shoulder at her husband. “Where’s Ma?” she asked.
“Resting.” He gave a small smile. “The children ran her ragged at the river today. She took them all the way to the tower. I daresay she’ll be sleeping till next week.”
Mrs. Ward climbed to her feet and smoothed her skirt. She gestured to the crooked dining table in the center of the room. Six mismatching chairs were crammed around it. Tallow candles flickered and hissed in the center.
Mrs. Ward lifted her daughter’s cloak from the back of the chair and hung it on a hook beside the door.
“Please, Mr. Jackson. Sit. I’ll make us some supper. I know you don’t much feel like eating, but you ought to try and take a little. Best you keep your strength up.” Her voice was kind and motherly. It made a small smile appear in the corner of Ernest’s lips.
And before he knew what was happening, he found himself seated at a crooked dining table in front of the fire, Mrs. Ward and her husband on one side of him and three dark-eyed children on the other. A bowl of bone broth sat in front of him, hunks of bread and cheese in the center of the table. It was by far the simplest meal Ernest had ever eaten. And, he realized, strangely it also one of the most delicious. He was glad Mrs. Ward had talked him into eating. The bread had the same delicious flavor as the loaf he had eaten at Rachel’s apartment, and the warmth of the broth brought back energy to his legs he had not realized he was missing.
“Who’s this, Mama?” asked one of Mrs. Ward’s daughters, staring up at Ernest and lifting a spoonful of broth carefully to her mouth. The two other children were watching him with keen eyes from across the top of the soup bowls.
Mrs. Ward reached over to smooth her daughter’s hair. “This is Mr. Jackson. He’s to have a little supper with us tonight. Tell him, ‘good evening.’”
The little girl managed a smile. “Good evening.”
“Mama,” said the boy, “why is he dressed like that?”
Mrs. Ward bit her lip and flashed Ernest apologetic eyes, but he smiled to himself. He did look quite the sight, he imagined. He was dressed in the embroidered silk waistcoat he had worn to visit Lady Katherine earlier that day. How distant that tea and sponge cake seemed.
Had that really only been that morning that he had resigned himself to life as Lady Katherine’s husband? Had he truly sat opposite her that very day and sworn to himself he would have nothing more to do with Rachel Bell? How could he have let himself think such a thing? Rachel was achingly precious; he saw that with such clarity now. She was achingly precious, and she was in danger. He wanted nothing more than to squeeze her in his arms and never let go.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ernest saw Mr. Ward reach across and cover his wife’s hand with his. He gave it a gentle squeeze.
And with that tiny, simple gesture, Ernest felt suddenly an intruder. He felt suddenly, wildly jealous.
How I long to sit at the table beside a woman I love…
And how desperately he wanted that woman to be Rachel.
With supper finished, the children were herded off to bed. Ernest sat back in his chair and glanced out the window. Night had fallen emphatically, and there was little to see beyond the hazy glow of the street lamps. Faint specks of rain were dappling the glass.
He felt his stomach lurch at the thought of Rachel out there in the dark and cold. Is she inside at least? Is she warm and dry?
Mrs. Ward returned from the children’s bedroom and caught his gaze. He could see the same worry in her eyes.
“I’ll make you a little tea, Mr. Jackson,” she said. “It’ll help settle you.”
He gave a small smile. “Thank you. Tea would be wonderful.”
A mouthful of tea to warm me, and then I must go back out. Wherever she is, I must find her.
He found himself wandering edgily through Mrs. Ward’s house, back and forth across the kitchen, up and down the corridor. He stopped abruptly outside one of the bedrooms.
The door hung open and there, draped over a rocking chair in the corner of the room was Rachel’s crimson dress. He remembered her wearing it the night she had been with the Baron. Without thinking, he made his way into the bedroom and lifted it from the chair. He held it to his chest and ran his fingers over its silky fabric. He could smell the faint scent of rosewater.
He squeezed the gown tightly in his fist. How will I live with myself
if something has happened to her?
He perched on the edge of the narrow bed, clutching the dress in his lap.
If they found Rachel, he would make sure she never worked another night as an escort again. She could protest all she wanted, but he’d rather stand guard at her door each night than let her in the company of dangerous men again.
If they found Rachel, he would do everything in his power to give her that decent, honorable life she craved. He would do everything in his power to make her happy.
No, not if. When.
He couldn’t bear to think of the alternative. Couldn’t bear for there to be a world without Rachel Bell in it.
He looked around the tiny room. A wooden rocking horse sat in one corner, a small blue dress tossed over the saddle. The room clearly belonged to Mrs. Ward’s daughters. In spite of himself, he felt surprisingly comfortable here in Mrs. Ward’s house. Surprisingly comfortable in this world of knucklebones and tallow candles.
Is this what life would be like if I were to turn my back on the nobility, he found himself wondering. If he were to give up his life of embroidered waistcoats and sponge cakes, would it be replaced with a world where he might clutch a woman’s hand while he spooned down mouthfuls of bone broth?
It was a strangely alluring prospect.
The floor creaked, and he looked up to see Mrs. Ward in the doorway, a mug of tea in her hand. Ernest glanced down at the dress in his hands, dimly aware that he ought to have been embarrassed. Instead, he pulled it tighter to his chest.
“If you need a bed for the night,” said Mrs. Ward, “you could…” She faded out. “I know it’s not much, but…”
Ernest laid the dress over the end of the bed and smoothed it carefully. “Thank you. But I need to go back out. Try and find her.” He stood. “There’ll be watchmen out on the streets by now. Perhaps I can ask their help.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Ward handed him a mug of tea. “There’s milk and sugar in the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” said Ernest, “but I don’t take either.”
Mrs. Ward flashed him a small smile. “No. Nor do I.”
* * *
Rachel sat with her knees pulled to her chest. She could hear the pale and distant coo of an owl.
Nighttime.
She shivered, pulling her knees closer.
What difference did it make, she asked herself? Night or day, there was darkness down here; thick and unyielding. She could barely see her hand in front of her face.
A fresh wave of panic began to rise within her, and she forced herself to choke it down. Panic would accomplish nothing.
Betsey would know she was missing. She would see that she left her things thrown over the rocking chair in her daughters’ room. Would know she would not have left without saying goodbye.
Yes, Rachel told herself, Betsey will know something has happened to me. Someone will find me…
The thought came to her unbidden. What if that person is Ernest Jackson?
She almost laughed. Whatever fleeting and fragile thing had existed between her and the Marquess was well and truly over. And yet she couldn’t help the quickening in her chest when she imagined Ernest Jackson being the one to break down that cellar door and untie these cursed ropes. Couldn’t help but imagine how it might feel to be curled up in his arms, away from this horrid, lightless cellar.
Ernest Jackson had made it clear she was nothing more to him than a means of finding his sister. And yet she had been unable to stay away—she had been on her way to his manor house with information when Burns had snatched her.
Rachel wished she could push him from her mind. Now, of all times, thinking of Ernest Jackson would do her no good.
She let out an enormous sigh and closed her eyes against her knees, trying to convince herself the darkness was a choice.
She looked up as the door creaked noisily. A man stood in the doorway, a lamp in his hand. The light flickered on his face.
It was not Burns. This man was younger, shorter. The man Burns had been speaking to earlier, she guessed. In his hand, he held a thick crust of bread. A canteen of water was tucked beneath his arm.
He came to Rachel and sat the lantern on the earthen floor. “Here.” He held out the bread and water.
“Thank you.” Her voice was husky. She squinted in the hot light. “Perhaps you might untie me a moment? So I can eat and drink?”
The young man hesitated. “I ain’t supposed to…”
Rachel bit back her sharp reply. She would accomplish far more, she knew if she made herself appealing to the man. “You brought me food and water,” she said sweetly. “Am I supposed to just look at them?”
The man scratched his chin. Finally, he knelt and pulled away the ropes at Rachel’s wrists.
She rubbed her aching arms. “Thank you.” She brought the canteen to her lips and took a long mouthful. The man sat beside her, one thick leg stretched out in front of him. She eyed him. There was a familiarity to his face. Despite his stocky build, she could see plenty of her client in the young man’s face.
“You’re Burns’ son,” she said.
The man nodded faintly.
“What do you want with me? What does your father want with me?”
He said nothing.
Rachel broke off the end of the bread. Play this man. You owe him no decency.
She gave him a coy smile. “We can speak,” she said sweetly. “It’s all right. Who do you imagine I will tell?” She peered up at him with hooded eyes.
A tiny smile appeared in the corner of his lips.
“You don’t know me,” she said. “What will you gain by keeping me down here?”
The man shrugged.
Is he a fool, or is he just acting like one?
This was a man sent out to do another’s bidding, Rachel felt sure. A man sent out to do the bidding of someone wiser and more manipulative than himself.
“Who are you and your father working for?” Rachel pressed. “Someone is paying you to do their work for them. Who is it?”
He gave a snort of laughter. “I ain’t telling you that.”
Rachel pressed light fingers to his arm. “No. That would be too easy, aye?” She blinked at him. “But if I were to guess, you could tell me. Just a nod. That’s all. Just a little nod of your head.”
The man said nothing.
“Is it the Viscount then?” she asked. “Is he back in London then? Is he angry that I went prying into his lovelorn past?”
The man made no response, just looked at her with dull, unintelligent eyes.
Rachel cursed herself silently. I’m losing my touch.
“Why does it matter who we’re working for?” Burns’ son asked gruffly. “Ain’t going to change the fact that you’re trapped down here like a rat in a cage.”
Rachel swallowed, forcing herself to keep the lightness in her voice. “No,” she said. “It ain’t going to change that. But whoever you’re working for has an interest in the Marquess of Dalton. And I don’t want to see any harm come to him, especially not on my account.”
The man laughed loudly, a sound that made Rachel’s skin crawl. “You care for him.”
“Care for him?” Rachel repeated, forcing out an airy laugh. “Don’t be mad. What right would a girl like me have to care for a marquess.”
He leered toward her. “I can see it in your eyes, girl.”
Rachel cursed under her breath again. Perhaps the man was not as foolish as she had first believed.
He gave her a toothy grin and snatched the last piece of bread from her hands. He began to bind her wrists again, tighter this time. “That why you got involved with all this mess then? Because you care for the Marquess so?”
Rachel clenched her jaw. “Why I got involved is none of your business. And you? What has you prying about in someone else’s affairs?”
He climbed to his feet and lifted the lamp, making shadows see-saw over the room. “Money, of course.” He gave a snort of laughter, shooting Rachel a wit
hering look.
“You’ll likely be imprisoned if you’re caught as a kidnapper,” she called after him, as he made his way to the door. “Transported, perhaps. And what if I’m to die down here?” She pushed aside the tremor in her voice. “Where would you be then? I hope you’re being paid enough to risk a date with the hangman.”
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 22