Title Sinful Tales of Desirable Ladies

by Lucinda Nelson

  Pinning her hair up into a respectable coif, she joined the Bentley’s for breakfast, and only half listened to their kindly conversation. Mrs. Bentley frowned when she gave only the minimal responses. “Whatever is the matter, dear?”

  Not willing to fully explain her fears, and that she had seen the red headed assassin outside their house, she tried to smile. “I am so sorry. I did not sleep well last night.”

  “You are safe here, Miss Wolcott,” Mr. Bentley told her firmly. “That man cannot harm you here.”

  “I am so afraid he can. I am terrified I am getting you mixed up in this whole affair.”

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Bentley waggled her finger at Teresa. “After breakfast, you will return to your room and get some sleep. I see those dark circles under your eyes and they are not attractive.”

  Obeying the old woman, Teresa returned to her room, feeling more reassured that the killer would certainly not harm her right then. Feeling exhausted and emotionally, drained, she laid down and she managed a light sleep for a few hours.

  A light tap at her door woke her abruptly. Sitting up, wide awake with her heart hammering in her chest, she called, “Yes?”

  “A message for you, Miss.”

  “A – a message?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Rising, crossed the room to the door and opened it a small way. A footman in the Bentley livery stood there, a folded paper in his hand. She took it. “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome, Miss.”

  No one knows where I am. Who could have sent this? Swallowing the dryness in her throat, Teresa stared at it as though it would stand up and strangle her. When nothing at all happened, she gingerly unfolded it.

  My dear Teresa, she read. I am so sorry you witnessed what appeared to be an interlude between me and Rebecca Calhoun. Nothing could be further from the truth. She came to me in need of assistance, and I merely embraced her as I would a friend. I miss you, my sweet Teresa, and need you to come back home. Your brother is worried sick, and your sister-in-law may become gravely ill if you do not return. I will explain everything to your satisfaction when you return. Yours, Solomon.

  In a fit of rage, Teresa crumpled the paper and threw it into the corner. “It will not work,” she snarled. “If Sol wanted me back, he would come himself and break the door down. Nor would he sign it Solomon. He would use ‘Sol’ or more likely his title of ‘Thornehill’. You are not going to get me so easily, Crane.”

  Angry, frightened that her enemy knew exactly where she was, Teresa paced her room. “Sol would not write a measly letter,” she fumed, tossing her hair back over her shoulder and out of her face. “He would come himself. But he loves that strumpet Calhoun, not me, so why would he even try to find me?”

  Like lightning from the blue sky, Teresa realized she had been played. Not by Solomon, but by Edward Crane. Feeling as though she had been struck in her gut by a hard fist, she gasped and sat down in the chair. “Of course,” she whispered. “How else to get me away from Solomon? By driving a wedge between us. Get that nasty Calhoun woman to throw herself at him and enable me to witness it. I run away, and am vulnerable, exposed. Oh, Lord, what have I done?”

  Her fear running rampant through her veins, Teresa stood and paced again. “He is desperate,” she muttered. “The note was an attempt to get me to run to Sol, leave the protection of the Bentleys. If I do not, will he come in to kill me? Them?”

  Realizing her only hope was in Solomon and Thomas, she opened the door slightly and peeked out. Closing it again, she hurried to the window and gazed down at the street below. No red haired assassin lurked there, waiting for her to emerge and rush back to the Thornehill residence.

  Drawing on all her courage, forcing calm into her face and posture, Teresa went down the stairs and asked the butler where the Bentleys were.

  “They have taken a walk in the park, Miss.”

  “Might I have paper and pen? I wish to send a message.”

  “Of course, Miss. I will have a footman ready to deliver it.”

  Thomas, she wrote, inform His Grace that I am the home of Mr. and Mrs. Warren Bentley not far from Hyde Park. I have seen the red haired man following me, and Edward Crane is aware that I am here. He is trying to lure me out under forged letters from the Duke. Bring an army, dear brother, and bring me safely out. Teresa.

  Folding it, she handed the butler the letter. “Thank you, sir.”

  “My pleasure, Miss.”

  Returning to her room, Teresa once again paced, pausing to stare down at the street below. Estimating that it would take the messenger at least an hour to get to the Thornehill mansion, and perhaps half that for Thomas and Solomon to ride to her rescue, Teresa tried not to worry. “You will not win, Crane,” she snapped as she paced. “You think I am a fool?”

  Realizing that Crane would know his ruse did not work, Teresa tried not to panic. “They will be here soon. I know they will.”

  But what if neither Solomon nor Thomas was there when the messenger arrived? “I cannot think of that. I will not. I am safe here. Crane will not dare storm this house to get to me. As long as I stay in place, I am safe from him.”

  Striding to the window, she gazed down, then instantly flattened herself against the wall. The red haired man stared upward toward her, as though knowing she saw him, and did not care. Peeking around the edge, she witnessed him talking to a tall youngish man with blond hair. The man turned, and also gazed up. Teresa’s heart all but stopped.

  Crane.

  ***

  Solomon Eli Dunn, the Duke of Thornehill

  Stepping across the threshold of his house, Solomon encountered an excited Mrs. Wolcott waving a piece of paper in his face.

  “Teresa is safe, Your Grace,” she crowed. “She will contact us in a few days, and ran away because –”

  Solomon grimaced inwardly at the woman’s sudden heated blush. “Yes, Mrs. Wolcott, I know why she ran. I was responsible remember?”

  Mrs. Wolcott curtseyed. “I meant no offense, Your Grace.”

  “None taken. Did she say where she was?”

  “No, I am sorry, she did not. Only that she was safe.”

  Solomon rubbed the side of his nose. “Then we can be certain she is still in London,” he mused. “If she had gone to Manchester, the messenger could not have gotten here so quickly.”

  “I believe that to be the truth.”

  Observing the poor woman’s stricken face, Solomon tried to cheer her. “We will get her back, Mrs. Wolcott. This is the proof. Please do not fear that you have offended me. I have a rather thick skin.”

  Mrs. Wolcott tried to smile. “Of course we will, Your Grace.”

  “Tell me, has your husband returned?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “While we wait for him,” Solomon said, smiling, “will you please join me in the drawing room?”

  Mrs. Wolcott blushed furiously, but returned his smile. “Perhaps I may have a little wine with you.”

  His gut churning, Solomon made no outward show of his concern for Teresa as he made light conversation with Thomas’s wife. By her slightly swollen belly, he knew she was with child, and any excess anxiety on her part might be detrimental to her baby. “Did you know Thomas in his youth?” he asked.

  Mrs. Wolcott smiled fondly. “No, Your Grace. Our fathers knew one another slightly, but we met at a party. I thought him so handsome. All the young ladies hoped to gain his attention, but I caught his eye.”

  Solomon lifted his glass in a toast. “And there is no wonder why he did. You are a lovely lady, Mrs. Wolcott.”

  She smiled downward into her lap. “You are kind to say so.”

  The door opened to reveal Thomas rushing in, his expression slightly wild. Catching himself, he bowed. “Your Grace.”

  “Come in, Thomas. Have a drink.”

  “Thomas,” Mrs. Wolcott said, excited. “We have a message from Teresa. Here.”

  Unfolding the paper from her pocket, Mrs. Wolcott held it out
to her husband. Sipping his wine, Solomon observed Thomas’s expression change from nearly crazy to only slightly less so. He accepted a glass of wine from a footman and sat down as though not knowing where to plant his feet. He read and reread the letter, and drank emptying his glass in a single gulp.

  “She is not safe,” he murmured, then glanced at Solomon. “Is she?”

  “But, Thomas –”

  “She may be,” Solomon replied. “If she stays where she is, she might be. Should she venture out, well, Crane is watching.”

  “Do you think he knows where she is?” Thomas asked, his expression tight.

  “If his man followed her from this house,” Solomon answered slowly, his fear closing his throat, “he very well may. But we have to remember that if she found sanctuary somewhere, she is safe enough indoors.”

  “You do not think he can lure her out, or perhaps go in and kill her?” Thomas demanded. “Perhaps she is already dead.”

  “No!” Mrs. Wolcott appeared ready to faint. “Do not say that, Thomas. Please.”

  His expression abashed, Thomas glanced away and held his glass out for a footman to refill it. “You are right. I am sorry, I should believe she is well until we have proof otherwise.”

  Swallowing his own worst fears for Teresa’s safety, Solomon gestured for the footman to pour more wine into his own glass. “Jonas Simms has the proof we need that Beaulieu killed his wife and his steward killed the maid.” Pulling the notes from the inner pocket of his coat, Solomon unfolded the papers. “Beaulieu is raving about the murders, and Jonas took notes. He will help the witness escape from the house tonight and send him here.”

  “That is excellent news,” Thomas said, drinking his wine more slowly. “We can have him arrested within a day or so, then.”

  “Them arrested,” Solomon corrected. “The steward murdered Elize’s maid, and a footman witnessed it. Both are guilty. Tomorrow, we will have Mr. Downing come and take the footman’s statement, then the entire affair will become the responsibility of the courts.”

  Thomas smiled and raised his glass. “To a successful end of the hunt.”

  Solomon and Mrs. Wolcott raised theirs and sipped. “Now we can focus our attention on finding Teresa,” Solomon commented.

  “I have given her description to every constable and Runner I know,” Thomas replied wearily. “Unless we know where she is or who might have taken her in, there is little more we can do.”

  ***

  Miss Teresa Wolcott

  “As much as I enjoy your home and hospitality,” Teresa said to Mr. and Mrs. Bentley, “I should have a coach take me to my aunt in Manchester.”

  Mr. Bentley frowned slightly. “Are you still afraid this man will harm you?”

  After seeing Crane outside your house, yes. “I am, Mr. Bentley. I am also afraid he will harm you as well. This man is evil.”

  The two exchanged a glance, then Mr. Bentley nodded. “Though I do not share your fears, I will respect them. I will send a servant to hire a coach for you.”

  Breathing in deeply, Teresa found a warm smile. “Thank you so much. I will never forget your kindness.”

  “You will write and let us know you arrived safely?” Mrs. Bentley asked her.

  “Of course I will.”

  The butler strode in and bowed. “Sir, there is a man at the door who wishes to see –”

  Behind him, pistols in their hands, Edward Crane and the red headed assassin rushed into the drawing room where they stood. Teresa froze in shock, as did the Bentley’s, terror making her blood run cold. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Mr. Bentley demanded.

  Crane pointed the pistol in his face, his expression tight, implacable. “We are here for Miss Wolcott, sir. Now we mean to have her, and if you or your servants try to stop us, you will die.”

  “No!”

  Teresa stepped forward, planting herself between the assassin and Mrs. Bentley, who gaped as though unwilling to believe what was happening. “Do not harm them, Crane.”

  “Come with us quietly, and they will not be hurt,” he said, his blue eyes hard, icy. “We only want you.”

  Her terror galloping through her, Teresa swallowed hard. “I will come with you. Leave them in peace.”

  A hand gripped her arm tight enough to hurt, and Crane’s man hauled her forcefully toward the door. She risked a rapid glance back, finding Crane behind them even as Mr. Bentley shouted for his servants. Mrs. Bentley sank to a chair and Teresa thought she was weeping before Teresa lost sight of her.

  Hustled out of the house as the servants ran to their master, the man shoved her into a waiting carriage. Crane entered it behind her, his pistol still pointed at her head, as the other man leaped up to the seat and cracked the whip over the horses. Squashed into a corner, the carriage rolling quickly away from the Bentley home, Teresa looked back. Footmen charged after them, but their legs were no match for the horses, and they rapidly fell behind.

  “What do you want with me?” she asked, trying to prevent her voice from trembling.

  Crane lifted his upper lip. “You are going to help me kill Thornehill.”

  Chapter 30

  Solomon Eli Dunn, the Duke of Thornehill

  Jarvis Hall entered the drawing room and bowed. “There is a message for Your Grace.”

  “Ah, bring it here please.”

  Solomon plucked the missive from the silver tray the butler held out to him and unfolded it. Reading it, his jaw dropped, his eyes bulging from his head. “It is from Teresa,” he exclaimed. “She is at the home of Warren Bentley and Crane knows she is there. She is begging us to go fetch her.”

  Thomas slammed his glass down and rose, his expression both relieved and worried. “Do you know where he lives?”

  “She wrote here it is not far from Hyde Park,” Solomon said, following suit. “I know him slightly, he is quite wealthy so he should be easy to find.”

  Solomon and Thomas rushed from the drawing room, Solomon bellowing for horses to be readied. Mrs. Wolcott followed them out to the foyer, her eyes pleading. “Bring her back safely, Your Grace.”

  Solomon offered her a relieved grin. “We will.”

  “Hyde Park is only a few miles from here,” Thomas commented, his own relief evident on his face. “We can have her back by supper.”

  “We certainly will.”

  Cantering whenever the wagon and carriage traffic permitted them, Solomon and Thomas rode fast for Hyde Park, and easily received directions to the Bentley home from a carriage driver. It turned out to be a stately home set back from the wide, quiet lane, and Solomon dismounted to hand his reins to Thomas. “I will go in and bring her out,” he said.

  After informing the butler of his name and title, Solomon was immediately shown into the house. Expecting a quiet reception by Mr. Bentley, he was instead met in the drawing room by an outraged Mr. Bentley, a weeping Mrs. Bentley and a constable.

  “Your Grace,” Mr. Bentley said, bowing, “while I, of course, would receive you graciously, this is not a good time for a visit.”

  “I have come for Miss Wolcott,” Solomon replied, his unease growing. “She sent me a message saying she was here, and in danger. Will you please send for her?”

  Mr. Bentley’s expression of outrage grew to a fierce anger. “You are too late. Two men barged into my home and took her, they had pistols pointed at us. She went with them willingly in order to spare the lives of my wife and myself.”

  Solomon felt his world tilt. “Crane?” His tongue felt numb.

  “That is how she addressed him, Your Grace.”

  “I apologize for the disturbance in your home, Mr. Bentley.” Solomon’s voice sounded hollow, even to himself. “Please excuse me while I go catch Crane and save the lady I love.”

  “They took her in a carriage, Your Grace,” Mrs. Bentley cried. “Please find her. Miss Wolcott has become dear to us.”

  Solomon smiled grimly. “I will, Madam.”

  Spinning on his heel, Solomon rushed
back outside. “Crane has her,” he growled, his fears giving way to rage. He vaulted into his saddle. “He took her from them at pistol point.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Thomas’s face drained of blood. “Is she dead?”

  “I do not know. But he did not simply shoot her and run, and he must have a reason for not killing her straightaway.”

  Reining their horses around to trot back down the drive, Thomas asked, “So what do we do? We cannot just let him kill her.”

  “We do not know where she is,” Solomon snapped, his voice just under a shout. “If he took her in a carriage, he may have no intention of killing her. At least not yet.”