Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  Am I about to die?

  At the thought, his mind filled with Catherine Barnet. If he died, he would never see her again. He would never again hold her, kiss her, never have the chance to feel her body against his. If he died, and he would never have the chance to tell her how desperately he longed to escape the pull of the underworld. He would never have the chance to tell her how much he loved her.

  He blinked hard to force away a sudden sweep of dizziness.

  But the man with the gun simply grunted: “On the floor.” He shoved Patrick onto his knees.

  Patrick looked up at the man. He could see the crude tattoos inked on his neck. An anchor. A merchant mark.

  “Why did you move me?” he asked boldly. “What were you afraid I was going to see? A smuggling operation? Or were you worried I might catch sight of this devil they call The Ghost?”

  The man with the tattoo chuckled. “You’ll see The Ghost, Lord Ramshay. He’s the one who requested we bring you here. It seems he’s decided he would like to meet you in person.”

  The knot in Patrick’s stomach tightened. He sucked in a long breath to steel himself.

  Yes. It’s about time this coward stopped hiding behind his men.

  “Very well,” he said darkly. “Tell him I’m waiting.”

  The man chuckled. “You are not the one with the power, Lord Ramshay,” he said slowly. “The Ghost will come to you when he’s good and ready. I’m sure he’ll let you know all about the fine plans he has for you.”

  Patrick felt a wave of heat flood him. He forced himself to keep his face even. “Fine plans?” he repeated. “What fine plans? More extortion? More home invasion?”

  Another dark chuckle. “I think things have gone past that now, wouldn’t you say?”

  Patrick swallowed heavily. He could not die in this miserable dungeon. This could not be his last view of the world. He could not die with Catherine thinking of him as she did.

  Without another word, the men were gone. They pulled the door closed heavily, plunging Patrick into blackness. All that lit the room was the flimsy line of lamplight pushing beneath the door.

  Patrick waited for the men’s footsteps to disappear. He squinted in the dark, listened for any sounds that might place him within the city. Was that laughter in the rooms above his head? Voices? Or just his tangled imagination?

  His fingers tensed around the long nail he had worked from the floor of the carriage and had hidden in his fist. With a small smile at the edge of his lips, he began slowly, steadily to saw at the ropes.

  * * *

  Catherine stood in the warehouse with the discarded ropes in her hand. She heard the splintering of wood echo in the silence.

  She whirled around. In the dim light, she could see Edmund hurrying toward her.

  She held out the rope. “He was here,” she told him, her voice wavering. “They must have been using these to restrain him.”

  Edmund met her eyes. He said nothing.

  “There’s no blood on the ropes,” Catherine told him, forcing steadiness into her voice. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Of course.” Edmund pulled her into a tight embrace. “We’ll find him, Catherine. I swear it. We’ll find him.”

  She sucked in her breath, blinking away the tears that were welling in her throat. “Do you think he’s escaped? Or do you think they’ve taken him?”

  “I don’t know,” Edmund admitted. “There’s a chance, of course, that he got away. Perhaps we ought to try his townhouse.”

  Catherine nodded. How desperately she wanted to knock on the door of Patrick’s townhouse and find him in his parlor with his ragged hair tousled and a smile on his face. How desperately she wanted to throw her arms around him and tell him how sorry she was. How desperately she wanted to hold him, kiss him, feel his hands on every inch of her. And if she ever managed to do such things, she would never let go of him again.

  * * *

  Catherine raced up the front path of the Ramshay townhouse and pounded furiously on the door. Patrick’s butler, Groves, answered.

  “Is he here?” Catherine asked breathlessly, before the man could speak. “Lord Ramshay? Has he come back?”

  Groves shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss. We’ve not seen Lord Ramshay.”

  Catherine felt her stomach plunge. In the carriage, she had tried to tell herself not to be too optimistic. She knew it was far more likely the men holding Patrick had moved him. But she couldn’t help the fresh ache in her chest.

  An old woman appeared behind the butler, her face lined with concern. Catherine recognized her as the housekeeper, Mrs. Morgan.

  “Ah,” she said. “Lord Featherstone. Miss Barnet.” She gave them a wan smile. No doubt she had been hoping the knock at the door might have been Patrick. “You’ve no news on the Baron?”

  Catherine felt Edmund’s eyes on her.

  Keep quiet, said his firm gaze. A reminder that they knew so little about whoever was perpetrating these crimes. A reminder that the brains behind such a thing may well be lurking beneath Patrick’s roof.

  Could it really be Mrs. Morgan?

  She had done her best to assist them the last time they had been here.

  “We’ve no news, I’m afraid,” Edmund said, after pausing a moment too long.

  Mrs. Morgan sniffed. “He’s in trouble, isn’t he? I just know it.”

  Catherine swallowed heavily. “We don’t know that, Mrs. Morgan. Not for certain.” She could hear the waver in her voice. Could feel Edmund’s eyes cutting into her, warning her to keep silent, say nothing, trust no one. “You’ll have a message sent to me the moment he returns, won’t you?” she coughed. “Miss Catherine Barnet at Featherstone Manor.”

  The housekeeper nodded. “Of course, Miss.”

  Edmund reached for Catherine’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  They began to walk back down the front path.

  The door clicked open again, making Catherine turn. And there stood Groves with a pistol in his hand, held threateningly out toward them.

  Chapter 43

  At the sight of the gun, Edmund’s heart began to race, his fingers curling into angry fists. He glanced at Catherine. Her eyes were flashing. He pressed a steadying hand to her wrist. Knew, after her escapades at the docks, that she was not beyond doing something foolish.

  Groves looked past them into the street. “Ah,” he said. “You’ve a cab waiting. Excellent.” He gave them a smooth smile and nodded toward it. “Shall we?”

  Edmund clamped a protective hand around Catherine’s arm. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “Just do as he says.”

  But the look in Catherine’s eyes was not fear. It was anger. She walked toward the cab, her jaw set firmly and her lips pressed into a narrow white line.

  “Seven Dials,” Groves told the driver.

  Edmund felt his stomach roll.

  “Seven Dials?” the driver repeated. “Sir, I—”

  “You heard me,” Groves said brusquely. He climbed into the coach and sat opposite Edmund and Catherine.

  Slowly, the carriage pulled into the street.

  Edmund fixed Groves with hard eyes. “Why?” he said sharply. “Ramshay is a good and decent man. Why would you do such a thing? Money? Power?”

  Groves lay the gun over his knees. “I suggest you don’t speak, Lord Featherstone. It will make this all much easier.”

  “No,” Edmund said sharply. “I’ll not be silent. I want answers. Are you the one running this whole sorry operation? Are you the man they call The Ghost?”

  Groves chuckled thinly. “Like I said, My Lord, this will be easier for all of us if you just keep your damn mouth shut.”

  Edmund gritted his teeth. He felt Catherine’s hand at his elbow, squeezing it in an act of solidarity.

  Groves. I always knew there was something not right about the man.

  How foolish of him not to act on his suspicions. At the time, it had just felt like paranoia. Paranoia, he saw now, that had not been m
isplaced.

  * * *

  Patrick worked his wrists against the frayed ropes, exhaling in relief when his arms burst free. He rubbed his aching shoulders, touched the raw skin on his wrists where the ropes had cut into him.

  He peered through the keyhole. The dark passage on the other side was empty. He picked up the nail he had used to hack at the ropes and shoved it into the keyhole, probing at the mechanism of the lock until he heard a satisfying click.

  Tentatively, he pushed open the door and edged into the passage.

  How many rooms in this place?

  He counted six doors. What was behind each of them, he wondered? Were they all empty rooms like the one in which he was being kept?

  Most of the rooms, he realized, had no keyhole. He opened each door and peeked inside, finding nothing except packed earth and darkness.

  And then he came to a room that was not empty. It was dark inside and he could see little but the outline of a desk and chair. Holding his breath, Patrick made his way inside. The ceiling loomed low over his head.

  He pulled the door closed behind him and fumbled through the dark until his fingers landed on a lamp on the desk. He felt around for the tinderbox beside it and lit the wick. The lamp flared, filling the room with an orange glow. There was little to see beyond the chair and small writing desk cluttered with papers.

  The room looked makeshift and temporary. He remembered what Thorne had told him about The Ghost.

  “He moves around the city…He’s too smart to stay in one place…”

  Patrick looked down at the desk. Papers were strewn across it, along with an ink pot and nib pen. He peered down at the papers. They were scrawled with strings of numbers, along with names of what appeared to be both men and vessels.

  Delivery ledgers?

  Were these papers related to the smuggling operation The Ghost was involved in? Were they somehow connected to the deliveries to the Red Queen?

  He squinted at the strings of numbers. Could they be coordinates perhaps? Locations? He shoved one of the pages into his pocket.

  Patrick turned abruptly as footsteps thumped down the stairs at the opening of the passage. He turned out the lamp and stumbled back toward the room he had been held. But it was too late. There stood the man with the tattoos, watching Patrick with his arms folded across his thick chest.

  He snorted. “Well, My Lord. I didn’t take you as an escape artist.” In the dim light, he was little more than an enormous shadow. The shadow lurched toward him, pinning him against the wall. The tattooed man wrenched Patrick’s arms behind his back. The nail he had used to escape spilled to the ground.

  The tattooed man bent to pick it up, not releasing his iron grip on Patrick’s wrists. He smiled thinly and slid the nail into his pocket.

  And with a powerful shove, Patrick was back in the dark hovel again, the door clicking closed behind him.

  * * *

  The driver drew the coach to stop at the edge of Long Acre. “That’s as far as I’m going,” he said in a voice that clearly said he would not be convinced otherwise. “You want to go further, you’ll have to make it on foot.”

  Groves threw open the door. “Then we shall walk,” he said icily, climbing out into the street and gesturing with the gun for Catherine and Edmund to follow.

  Edmund looped his arm through Catherine’s, pulling her close. These streets were sickeningly familiar. There were the gin shops, there were the taverns. There was the sundial, surrounded by drunkards. He could see Catherine’s eyes darting. Saw a faint shiver run through her.

  “Walk,” hissed Groves. Edmund felt the nose of the pistol jab into his shoulder. He walked. Catherine hurried beside him, her arms wrapped around herself and her eyes on her feet.

  They passed the sundial and turned down a street that was sickening familiar.

  “The Red Queen,” Edmund murmured, his stomach turning over. Groves shoved them past the gin shop and down the alleyway. Shoved them past the red door and toward the dark entrance at the back of the gambling den.

  Edmund sucked in his breath.

  This is where we saw the men delivering the contraband…

  Groves dug into his pocket and produced a key. He slid it into the door and shoved it open, revealing steps leading down to a narrow passage. A lantern flickered at the top of the stairs.

  “In,” Groves said shortly. Edmund glanced at Catherine, giving her a faint nod. She gripped her skirts in her fist and began to climb down the steep stairs, a hand pressed on the earthen wall to keep her balance.

  Edmund felt the gun pressing into his shoulder. Down the stairs he went, his throat growing drier with each step. He inhaled deeply, trying to steady his breathing.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Groves press his hands to the wall, to steady himself as he descended the stairs.

  Impulsively, Edmund spun around, planting a wild blow on the side of Groves’ face. The butler stumbled backwards, his head slamming against the wall and his body sinking to the ground.

  Edmund rubbed his throbbing fist. Catherine was staring open-mouthed.

  Edmund reached for Groves’ pistol and shoved it into his pocket. He couldn’t hold back a self-satisfied chuckle.

  “Hell, I wish Ramshay had been around to see that.”

  Chapter 44

  Catherine whirled around, trying to make sense of this narrow chasm they had found themselves in. In the faint light, she could see doors dotted on each side of the passage.

  She looked down at the butler’s body. His eyelids were fluttering and his fingers beginning to curl. “We ought to move him,” she whispered to Edmund. “It looks as though he’s waking up.”

  Edmund nodded. He pushed against one of the doors, murmuring in surprise when it opened to reveal an empty room. He grabbed the butler by the feet and dragged him across the dirt floor. He deposited Groves in the corner of the room and reached into his pocket for the key. He pulled the door closed behind him, squinting in the dark for a keyhole.

  “There’s no lock,” he reported. “It won’t hold him.”

  Catherine nodded. “Then we’d best hurry.” She snatched the lantern from above the stairs. “Patrick is here. He must be.”

  She set off down the passage, dropping to her knees in front of each door and peering through the narrow crack beneath.

  Empty. Empty. A desk and chair. Empty. And then movement. Her heart leapt.

  She could see someone pacing back and forth across the room. Black boots with a buckle at the ankle. Her breathing quickened.

  Patrick’s boots?

  Surely there were men all over London with buckled black boots.

  But I have to take a chance.

  “Patrick?” she whispered. She held her breath.

  “Catherine?”

  An enormous smile spread over her face, warmth flooding her at the sound of his voice.

  “How are you—Why are you—” Patrick’s words were garbled with shock.

  “I’ll explain later,” she said hurriedly. She looked up at Edmund. “Groves’ key,” she hissed. She climbed to her feet and took it from his hand, shoving it into the lock. She jiggled it violently. The door remained firmly closed.

  “There’s a room close by here,” Patrick whispered. “With a table and papers in it. An office of sorts. Perhaps there might be another key in there.”

  Catherine scrambled to her feet.

  “Catherine,” she heard Edmund whisper. “Let me.” But she was already off toward the room with the desk and chair.

  “Keep watch,” she hissed over her shoulder.

  She dropped to her knees again and peered into the room. It was dark inside, and she could make out little but the inky shape of the table. Tentatively, she pushed open the door.

  She could just make out the shape of a lamp on the table but didn’t dare light it. Instead, she pulled open each of the desk drawers and squinted into them, her fingers roaming over their contents like a blind man.

  What is that?
A nib pen. An ink pot. A letter opener.

  Finally, at the bottom of the third drawer, her fingers curled around a ring of keys. She grabbed them hurriedly and made her back to the locked room.