The man gave another snort. “You think anyone will give two tosses that we’ve kidnapped a little escort?” He laughed. “I’ve been paid well for the pleasure, my girl, don’t you worry. I’ve a level head on my shoulders. Far more than the likes of you. I know it’s far wiser to work for money than for love.”
Chapter 39
Ernest awoke to see a pair of legs in tattered trousers crossing his line of vision. The ground was solid and cold beneath him. He sat, disoriented. Where was he?
Of course. Here he was in the eternal gray and grime of Bethnal Green. He had left Mrs. Ward’s house after he had finished his cup of tea and had spent the night hounding useless, blank-eyed watchmen for information. No one had seen a thing. None knew of any abandoned houses, none were able to point Ernest in the direction of the bastards who were keeping Rachel prisoner.
He had carried on walking the streets, asking and searching, hopelessness welling inside him.
He had sat down to rest a moment, he remembered, before his exhaustion had gotten the better of him. He must have slept for several hours. When he’d sat wearily to rest, the night had been thick and dark. Now the sky was white, and the smell of fresh slaughtering was rising fiercely from the nearby market.
He dug a hand into his pocket, realizing despondently that his watch had been stolen. He felt in his other pocket, grateful to find his coin pouch was still there. He would have means to get home once he’d found Rachel. Means to provide her with food and warmth and whatever else she needed.
He stumbled wearily to his feet, wiping at the dust clinging to the sleeves of his jacket. He stretched his back and shoulders, rolled his neck in a vain attempt to relieve its tension. He felt stiff and dirty. Felt somewhat like a miner, he realized, wincing at the irony.
“Mr. Jackson.”
He turned at the sound of Mrs. Ward’s voice.
“I’m glad I found you.” She frowned. “Are you all right?”
He rubbed his eyes, trying to make them focus. “I fell asleep a while, is all.”
“Out here on the street?”
Ernest nodded.
“Did you see anything while you were out here last night? Were the watchmen able to help?”
He shook his head. “Not a scrap. It’s as though she and the man have simply vanished.”
The words left an ache inside him. It wasn’t true, he told himself. Rachel was here somewhere. And he damn well wasn’t leaving this place until he found her.
Mrs. Ward handed him a small bundle, wrapped in a cloth. “Here. I thought you might be hungry.”
Ernest unwrapped the bundle to reveal two warm bread rolls. In spite of his anxiety, his stomach groaned loudly. He gave Mrs. Ward a small smile. “Bless you.” He bit into the first roll hungrily, feeling the food bring back a little of his energy.
Mrs. Ward was one damn fine baker, he thought. Her bread would not be out of place on the breakfast tables of the nobility. A shame they would never find her all the way in Bethnal Green.
“I thought to go back to Rachel’s tenement,” she told him. “If she managed to escape somehow, she’d go back there, wouldn’t she.” She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, as a cold wind tunneled through the streets. “I know it’s unlikely she’ll be there. But there’s a chance. And if she got back to her tenement, perhaps she’d be too afraid to leave again and tell me she was safe.”
Ernest could hear the uncertainty in her voice, the desperation. “It’s a good idea,” he told her. He swallowed the last of his bread roll. “I’m coming with you.”
The sight of Rachel’s building brought an ache to his chest that Ernest had not been expecting. Suddenly, he was back on that sleeping pallet with Rachel looming over him, tendrils of blonde hair tickling his cheeks and liquor spinning the world. And he was reaching for her, feeling her lips so lightly, so fleetingly graze his.
How wrong it felt to be standing here outside that crooked building, knowing that, in all likelihood, Rachel was not inside.
Still, Mrs. Ward was right. There was a chance Rachel had escaped and made it back to her apartment. And it was a chance he had to cling to.
He pushed open the door and climbed the narrow staircase up to Rachel’s apartment, Mrs. Ward following close behind.
He knocked loudly. “Rachel? Are you there?”
The silence was unsurprising but still made his stomach roll.
He tried again. “Rachel? If you’re there, please let us in.” The door creaked open beneath his fist.
Ernest swapped an anxious glance with Mrs. Ward.
“Rachel?” she called softly. “Are you in there?” She pressed lightly on the door, pushing it open further. “If she were here, she would have locked her door,” she said anxiously. “She’d never have left it open.”
Ernest stepped inside the room, his heart thumping. There was no sign of Rachel. No sign of anyone.
“If someone was here, they’re long gone,” he reported. Mrs. Ward followed him inside and cast her gaze over the gloomy apartment.
Ernest went back to the door and peered closely at the lock. Rough scratches marked the wood and the rusting metal of the catchment. “It looks as though someone picked the lock,” he said.
“That they did,” said a gravelly voice behind him.
Ernest looked up to see an old man poking his head out from the door beside Rachel’s.
“You saw someone here?” Mrs. Ward pushed, coming to join Ernest in the doorway.
The old man nodded. “They was making one hell of a racket. Told them to bloody well keep it down. Some of us were trying to sleep.”
“Who was it?” Ernest asked impatiently.
The man scratched his bristly gray chin. “Some man I’d never seen before. Didn’t like the look of him.”
“A tall man with grey hair and a dark coat?” Ernest pushed. “Unfriendly eyes?”
The old man shook his head. “No, this fellow was younger. Dark hair. Not so tall.”
Ernest swapped glanced with Mrs. Ward.
Are there two men involved in Rachel’s kidnapping?
“I told him Miss Bell weren’t here,” her neighbor continued. “Told him I’d not seen her in days.” He sniffed loudly. “He said he weren’t looking for Miss Bell. Said he knew where she was. Said he was looking for some Marquess. Thought he might be hiding himself here.”
“What?” The knot in Ernest’s stomach tightened.
The man chuckled. “I know. I said the same. Told him he were mad, thinking there’d been any such man floating around in this place. But he broke in anyway. Said he had to find the Marquess and he had every reason to believe he were hiding out in Miss Bell’s apartment.” He snorted. “Wrong though, weren’t he. Just like I said.”
Mrs. Ward wound a stray strand of hair around her finger. “When was this?” Ernest could hear the impatience in her voice.
The man shrugged. “Early this morning. Don’t know what time. Bastard woke me up, didn’t he.”
Ernest gave a short nod. “Thank you for your help.”
He let out his breath as the old man disappeared back inside his apartment.
“They were looking for me.” He folded his hands behind his head and began to pace across Rachel’s apartment. “Why?” He rubbed his eyes. “I’m the reason Rachel’s been taken.”
This is my fault. Every bit of it. And I’ll be damned if I don’t make this right.
Mrs. Ward looked over at him with sympathetic eyes. After a moment, she said: “We ought to check this place. Perhaps whoever came looking left some clue as to who they were.”
Ernest nodded.
Inch by inch, they searched the apartment, scouring every floorboard, every inch of the table. Searching in the cold, ash-filled grate, inside pots and pans.
What were they looking for? Ernest was not even sure. A button perhaps? A thread of hair? Anything that might give some clue as to who this mysterious second man might be, or where he might be keeping Rachel.
He made his way t
o the sleeping pallet. The thin blanket was tossed messily across it. The ache inside Ernest intensified. How he longed to be lying on that flimsy mat again, Rachel’s blue eyes close to his, the smell of rosewater lingering on her skin.
And there, tossed onto the end of the mattress were the underskirts embroidered with tulips.
Ernest stared at them, unable to pull his eyes away.
Mrs. Ward followed his gaze. She gave a wry smile and picked the skirts up from the bed. “I suspect one day she’s planning to give these back to me.”
Ernest whirled around. “Those skirts are yours?”
Mrs. Ward held them up and smoothed the fabric, toying with a loose button. “I lent them to Rachel when her rooms got flooded.” She folded them neatly and set them back on the sleeping pallet. “I was starting to believe I was never going to see them again.”
Ernest tried to swallow. He ran a finger over the embroidered tulips. “That stitching,” he said huskily. “It’s very fine. Did you do it yourself?”
Mrs. Ward peered down at the stitching as though she had forgotten it was there. “Oh. Yes, I’ve always liked to sew.”
“The design,” Ernest said, his heart thumping. “Where did you find it?” His voice came out strangely high and hoarse.
Good lord, what’s wrong with me? Why am I having such trouble speaking normally?
Mrs. Ward hesitated. She raised an eyebrow at Ernest. He was acutely aware of how bizarre his questioning must seem.
“I had a dress when I was a child,” she said. “With these flowers stitched on it. One day I thought to try and copy it. I’ve always liked the pattern.”
Ernest felt hot and unsteady. “Yes,” he managed. “The pattern is lovely indeed.”
Chapter 40
“There’s nothing here,” said Mrs. Ward. “No trace of whoever was here looking for you. We ought to leave.” She frowned. “Are you all right, Mr. Jackson? You’ve gone awful quiet since you found those skirts.”
He gave a slight nod. “I’m just concerned about Rachel,” he said distantly.
“I know. So am I. Let’s go out there and find her.”
Ernest nodded silently. He followed Mrs. Ward back out of the apartment, careful to close the door firmly behind him. He found himself sneaking sideways glances at her as they wove their way back toward the streets surrounding the market.
Stop this. It’s impossible.
No, not impossible.
Unlikely. Tremendously, exceptionally unlikely.
But she had owned a dress with those very same tulips on them. Owned a dress identical to the one he had found in the trunk full of Unity’s clothing.
And yes, Betsey Ward looked to be the same age as his sister. She was tall and broad-shouldered like the Duchess. And those strands of hair escaping out of her bonnet, Ernest realized, were exactly the same color as his.
But then, of course, he remembered. Betsey Ward’s mother lived above the bakery with them. Betsey Ward’s mother was not a noblewoman with a head full of secrets. She was not the Duchess of Armson.
He felt a strange, sinking inside of him.
A coincidence, he told himself. The skirts were nothing but a coincidence.
He dug his hands into the pockets of his coat and kept walking. His legs were aching with exhaustion, and his eyes were heavy. But there was no time to sleep. Not with Rachel out here in danger.
Nor was there time to contemplate the strange coincidence of Betsey Ward’s skirts. He had put his search for Unity ahead of Rachel in the past. He would not do such a thing again.
And so back they went to those creaking and crumbling houses by Spitalfields Market. Back to the houses that lay in the shadow of St. Bartholomew’s spire.
They questioned and door knocked and pried through windows. Even kicked down a door of a house that looked to be abandoned.
They found not a hint of Rachel or the black-eyed man who had taken her.
Ernest felt the sinking feeling inside him intensify. No, I must stay positive. I must believe we will find her.
But he knew well how unlikely their search was to yield results. He knew that, even if they were to find the crumbling house Rachel’s client had taken her to, there was no guarantee she would still be there.
“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Ward, in the early afternoon. Her voice was flat and tired. In her words, Ernest could hear the hopelessness he was trying not to feel. “I need to rest a moment.” She sank to the damp cobbles on the side of the road, her blue skirts pooling around her. Ernest sat beside her, bringing his knees to his chest.
“We’ll find her,” said Mrs. Ward, more to herself than Ernest. “We’ll find her and bring her home safely.” She sighed heavily, threads of coppery hair blowing in front of her eyes. “It was only a matter of time before she found herself in danger like this, wasn’t it. I should to have done more to help her.”
Ernest nodded slowly. “As should I.”
“I ought to have been more aware of how difficult life was for her. Being the child of an escort and all…”
Ernest raised his eyebrows. “Your mother was an escort?”
Mrs. Ward looked at the ground. “Yes. Well, my birth mother was. I never knew a thing about her beyond what she did for a living, but I’m sure life couldn’t have been easy for her. Finding herself with child and all.”
Ernest’s heart began to thump.
Mrs. Ward wound the string of her bonnet around her finger. “I thought to search for her once, but…” She shrugged. “I had no idea where to start. And even if I’d found her, I’m suspect she’d not be overly excited to see me. After all, she gave me up for a reason.”
Ernest realized he was staring. “Yes,” he said throatily. “Yes, I’m sure she had a reason.” He dropped his voice involuntarily. “Whatever that might be.” He could feel the back of his neck prickling.
“Anyway,” said Mrs. Ward, “my adoptive mother has always been wonderful to me. I never wanted for anything. We never had much money, but I’ve always been happy.”
“I’m glad of it,” Ernest said. His voice came out sounding like someone else.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Ward said suddenly, her cheeks flushing wildly. “I don’t know what I was thinking telling you all of this. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sure you—”
“No,” Ernest said hurriedly. “I’m glad you did.” He lowered his voice. “Very glad.”
For a long time, neither of them said nothing. A thousand questions raced through Ernest’s mind. There was so much he needed to say. So much he needed to ask, to explain. And yet he felt suddenly, strangely unable.
“Rachel says you are looking for someone too,” Mrs. Ward said finally.
He swallowed. “Yes. My sister.” He stared into his clasped hands, unable to look at her. “I grew up believing her dead. But now I…Now I’m not so sure.” He drew in a long breath. “Rachel believed she’d been little help to me in my search. But she’s been more helpful than she could know.”
He could feel Mrs. Ward’s eyes on him.
“You really do care for her, don’t you,” she said.
He nodded. “Very much. Though I’m afraid I’ve not always done right by her.”
His mind flickered back to their night at the theater. How edgy he had been afterward at the thought of being caught. How shallow and cowardly. If only he could find Rachel Bell safe, he would take her proudly anywhere she desired. He would feel no shame, no guilt.
Let the ton say what they like. I don’t care anymore.
All he cared about was seeing those piercing blue eyes again, feeling her silky skin against his, smelling that heady scent of rosewater. All he cared about was that Rachel was safe.
He glanced sideways at Mrs. Ward. What must this woman think of me, blurting out my secrets like this?
Because for all Ernest’s suspicions as to who Betsey Ward truly was, he knew he was nothing more to her than the strange nobleman who had barreled up to her door asking for Rachel one da
y. And had bought five loaves of bread.
“When we find her,” she said, “will you tell her this?”
Ernest nodded. All of it.
The urge to tell Rachel exactly how he felt was a powerful blaze inside him.
All of it and more. How I long to tell her I love her.
The realization struck him hard, leaving a knot of heat in his core. He felt suddenly breathless.
He’d never loved a woman before. But this was it. There was no doubt in his mind. It was love for Rachel Bell that had him sleeping in the streets and chasing after dangerous men who hid in abandoned houses.
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 23