Devoted to the Spanish Duke

by Sasha Cottman

  “Has she eaten?”

  “No. I only just got here. I took the sack off her head and was still trying to decide how to feed her while she is trussed up like a chicken when you arrived.”

  With the mask on, it was impossible to decipher the man’s response. He swore under his breath, then marched over to the bed. “I suppose untying you won’t present too much of a problem. You can’t get out, and even if you did, where would you go?”

  He bent and rolled Maria over onto her side. Then, to her bone-deep relief, he loosened the knots on her bindings and removed them before pushing her back down. She lifted her hands and got her first glimpse of the damage caused to her wrists and arms by the tight ropes which had bound her for the long journey to England. Deep, black bruises and half-healed red wounds covered the lower part of her limbs.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He ignored her, then went back to berating the woman. “Get some fresh water and soft cloths. I expect Doña Maria will wish to bathe. After she is clean, then make sure she eats. And keep this door locked. Don’t make me tell you that again.”

  Since her captor appeared to be in a charitable mood, Maria took a chance. “Please, señor, could you tell me how long I have been gone from home?”

  “I don’t know what sort of comfort this will give you, but you have been our captive for over two weeks. And in answer to what will no doubt be your next question . . . when your father pays the ransom.”

  He issued further curt instructions to the woman, then they both left the room. A key turned in the lock.

  Two weeks. She was alone, held prisoner in a foreign country. Beyond help from anyone she knew. What were the chances of her ever seeing her family again?

  The woman soon returned bearing a bowl of warm water, soap, and a cotton cloth. She allowed Maria a scant five minutes in which to wash and dry herself while she stood and watched.

  “Here. Put this on.” She handed Maria a plain beige woolen gown and a petticoat. The rough garments were nothing like her usual fine attire, but they were clean, warm, and functional.

  After she had dressed, Maria was ushered over to a small table where a plate of something that resembled a Spanish stew sat. She took a mouthful and screwed up her face. Esto es horrible

  Hunger forced her to eat a little more. The woman hovered nearby, watching Maria intently. She moved closer when Maria set down her spoon and pointed at the plate. “I want to see it empty,” she said.

  Maria blinked back tears, fighting against her growing fear; whoever had taken her knew what they were doing. They were determined and dangerous.

  Her mind began to slowly whirl with all manner of questions. Who were these people, and why had they taken her? And what had happened to the brave Señor Perez? Was he even alive?

  She had no answers. But what really mattered to her was the most pressing question of them all.

  What would happen if her father didn’t pay the ransom?

  Chapter Six

  Two weeks later

  London, England

  * * *

  Lisandro took the fastest possible ship and sailing route, but it was still almost a month since Maria had been taken before he finally arrived in London. He made straight for an address in Gracechurch Street and the only men in England he knew he could trust to help.

  When the hack pulled up out the front of the coaching company office, he checked the address he had written on a piece of paper and frowned. The building was rundown, dirty, and didn’t look at all like something owned by men of means.

  His heart sank. Perhaps the time since the end of the war had not been kind to his friends after all.

  He paid the fare and, grabbing his travel bag, climbed out of the carriage. His only consolation was knowing that the particular skills his friends had at their disposal were the kind that often didn’t require money. While Lisandro had the silver coins which Diego had given him, he was not keen to start throwing money around in order to find Maria. Piles of easy cash tended to attract the wrong sort of people.

  One sharp rap on the door of the coaching company went unanswered. So did the second. In frustration, he headed around to the rear mews. Hopefully someone worked in the stables.

  The yard was little better than the front of the place. There were no coaches or staff, but there was a large pile of clean hay just inside the nearest stalls.

  “What a sorry mess,” he muttered.

  A movement to his right caught his eye. A young boy, no older than six or seven, came strolling nonchalantly out of the stables. He stopped, took one look at Lisandro, then put his fingers to his lips and let out a loud, piercing whistle.

  Footsteps rumbled. Lisandro looked up to the top of the building. Three figures appeared from out of an upper door and moved onto the landing. Pistols were pointed directly at him.

  He didn’t move an inch. These men were some of his dearest friends, but he also had no doubt that the weapons were loaded and cocked. There would be little comfort in having them apologize profusely over his corpse for having mistakenly shot him.

  “I am Lisandro de Aguirre, Duke of Tolosa. I would appreciate it greatly if you gentlemen lowered your pistols,” he said.

  Two of the men instantly moved to disengage their weapons but the third kept his firmly aimed in Lisandro’s direction. A wry grin sat on his lips. “How do we know it is you? Any poorly dressed Spaniard could turn up and claim he was the Duke of Tolosa.”

  Lisandro chuckled. “Well, I was me when I woke this morning and discovered, to my disgust, that I was back in the rat-infested stench-hole of London.”

  The final pistol was lowered.

  Sir Stephen Moore hurried down the stairs to embrace him. Lisandro accepted the hug with good grace. For a man who dealt in blackmail and death, the Englishman was surprisingly effusive.

  “The Duke of Tolosa. What brings you here?” he asked. As he asked the question, Stephen’s gaze roamed over Lisandro’s tatty coat and battered hat, taking it all in. True to form, it seemed he missed nothing.

  “An important mission—one which means the difference between safely returning a young Spanish noblewoman to her family and having a very difficult conversation with them,” he replied.

  Stephen nodded. “Then you had better come inside.” He turned to the boy. “Toby, go upstairs and arrange a pillow and blankets for Don de Aguirre. He will be staying with us.”

  The young boy screwed up his face. “What was his name?”

  Lisandro beckoned the boy to come over. “I am the Duke of Tolosa. If I was English, you would call me Lord Tolosa, but because I am Spanish, I am Don Tolosa. Also, Don de Aguirre. But you may call me Lisandro if that makes it easier.”

  Toby might have been confused about the names and titles, but the lad was clearly not a fool. He dipped into a low, respectful bow. “May I take your bag, Lisandro?”

  “No, I am happy to carry it myself. But if you know where I can get a strong cup of coffee, I would be forever in your debt, young Toby,” replied Lisandro.

  The boy scampered off in the direction of the nearby stairs and took them two at a time.

  Lisandro waited until he had gotten to the top before turning to speak to Stephen. “I need to find the people who have taken this noblewoman, and quickly. To say I have little to go on is an understatement.”

  “Come upstairs and let’s see what we can do.”

  If anyone in London was going to be able to help it was one of the gentlemen who had been pointing a gun at him only a few minutes ago. With a spark of relief in his heart, Lisandro followed Sir Stephen up to the offices of the RR Coaching Company—Rogues of the Road.

  Inside, he was greeted by two of the others: Lord Harry Steele and Mister Augustus Trajan Jones. Lord Harry had a well-earned reputation for causing scandals in London high society, while Gus’s career as a smuggler necessitated him keeping a lower profile.

  “Where is the Duke of Monsale?” asked Lisandro. He needed as much help as he could
possibly get in order to locate Maria’s whereabouts.

  “Monsale is at his country estate overseeing the planting of new crops,” replied Harry.

  Lisandro nodded. “I should be doing that too. The wheat was almost done by the time I left Tolosa, and hopefully they will be getting the barley field ready now. And what about George?”

  “George is . . . well, let’s just say he is keeping a low profile at present. A little thieving job went awry a month back, and he nearly got caught. It shook him up quite badly,” said Gus.

  When no one else added to the story, Lisandro let it go. The Honorable George Hawkins was a master thief. If he had come close to being nabbed during a robbery, it must have been a risky one.

  Lisandro held out his hand to Harry. “And congratulations on your marriage; it was lovely to hear you had taken on a wife.”

  Harry grinned. “Thank you. Fatherhood is the next adventure looming in my future. Alice is with child.”

  “Well then, double congratulations,” replied Lisandro.

  After dropping his bag onto the long well-worn table which sat in the middle of the room, Lisandro searched inside it for his notebook. He took a seat as Toby appeared from another room, bearing a large cup. The boy set it in front of him, then bowed and stepped back.

  “Thank you, Master Toby. You may go resume the task of mucking out the stables,” said Stephen.

  With the boy gone, they got to work. Lisandro explained the unexpected visit from Diego de Elizondo, and his own trip to Zarautz, as well as the conversation he’d had with the drunk in the doorway. He also showed them the note about the boat and made mention of the Englishman, Mister Wicker, who had been in the tavern.

  At the end of it all, he sighed and reached for his rapidly cooling coffee.

  “Bloody hell, that’s a king’s ransom. Though it is odd that they asked for a smaller amount at first and then didn’t release Maria,” said Harry.

  Sir Stephen picked up the ransom note. “I am not that concerned about the money, but this Señor Alba is most definitely of interest. If he came to England with Maria, then he might well be our best chance at finding her.”

  Lisandro had gone down a similar road with his own thoughts, but he had reached a dead end. Having a name meant little in a bustling city of more than a million inhabitants.

  A sly smile crept to Stephen’s lips. “Lisandro, when was the last time you went to church?”

  He frowned. What a foolish question. He was Spanish and a Catholic; he went every week. Even on board the ship bound for England, he had asked the captain to conduct a small Sunday morning service for the crew and himself.

  His friend might be onto something.

  Everyone in Spain goes to church on Sunday. And when you are not at home, you find a place to worship. Could it be that simple?

  Rising from his chair, Lisandro met Stephen’s gaze. Today was Saturday. Tomorrow, all of the major Catholic churches in London would be full of worshippers, including Saint James’s church in Spanish Place. Any good Spaniard who happened to find himself in the English capital would be attending the Sunday morning mass.

  From his time in London during the war, Lisandro had formed a close friendship with the parish priest, Father Hurtado. If anyone new had started attending Saint James’s on a Sunday, Father Hurtado would know.

  Lisandro pointed a finger in Stephen’s direction and grinned. “I have a sudden desire to go and stretch my legs. All the way to the other side of Manchester Square, and St James’s church. And there I may seek out a priest. Care to join me?”

  Stephen smiled back. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter Seven

  Lisandro and Stephen arrived early for Sunday mass the following morning. After their visit to St James’s the previous day, they now had a plan in place. Every attempt to blend in with the rest of the parishioners had been made; both were dressed in regulation black suits with white linen shirts. Their morning coats did little however to hide their well-toned physiques and more than one young lady batted her eyelashes at them.

  After taking their seats several rows back from the altar but to one side, they sat quietly, heads facing forward, and waited.

  The aging Father Hurtado shuffled in, coming down to the front of the pulpit and stopping in front of one of the deacons. They exchanged a few words, after which the priest nodded his welcome to various parishioners as they made their way into the church and found a space in the pews.

  Lisandro watched the Father’s gaze as it swept over the gathering. When Father Hurtado put his hands together and held them to his lips, Stephen cleared his throat. “That’s the signal.”

  The priest dropped his right hand and touched the front of his robe five times. With his left hand, he brushed away an invisible piece of lint eight times. As he turned and headed back toward the pulpit, his gaze locked with Lisandro’s for the briefest of moments.

  Right-hand side of the aisle, which makes our man on this side. Five rows back from the front. Eight seats in from the aisle.

  Adrenaline coursed through him. Señor Alba was here in the church. The man who had helped kidnap Maria de Elizondo was sitting a matter of feet away.

  He let out a shaky breath, knowing that while he would dearly have loved to step out and make his way over to where Señor Alba sat, seizing him violently by the throat, it wouldn’t help Maria. If the kidnappers were any sort of professionals, they would have protocols set in place. If Alba didn’t return from church, they may well have standing orders to kill their captive.

  Stephen coughed. Then coughed again. Lisandro reached out and patted him gently on the back. “Are you alright?”

  “I’m trying to find a reason for us to leave. A coughing fit seems as good as any,” he replied.

  The spluttering grew louder, and the people around them made not-so-subtle noises about the disturbance. With a dramatic shake of the head, Stephen pointed to the aisle and got to his feet. He and Lisandro beat a hasty retreat out the front door.

  Outside in George Street, Stephen made a miraculous recovery. “What did you see as we left?” he asked.

  Lisandro pulled a notebook out of his coat pocket and jotted down some pertinent details. Short, tidy moustache, and well dressed. Middle-aged, if the kiss of gray hairs at his temple was any indication.

  “From the respectable gap between him and the next group of people in his pew, he appeared to be alone. I didn’t get a long look at him, but he seemed comfortable in his skin. You wouldn’t pick him as being a man who had stolen a young woman from her home,” replied Lisandro.

  “Damn. I was hoping we might get someone who looked furtive and out of place. The fact that he feels confident enough to risk venturing out into society tells us a great deal about the sort of people who have Maria,” said Stephen.

  For the next hour they stood on the opposite side of the street, waiting for Sunday mass to conclude. A little before midday, the first parishioners began to file out of St James’s church. Lisandro took a step forward, intending to cross over and stand outside the church, but Stephen seized him by the arm. “Let me do this. I blend in better than you.”

  Lisandro narrowed his eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you look like a Spanish gentleman. If you start following him, he might try to engage you in conversation. Then the game will be up. If I tail him, all he will see if he checks behind him is another pasty-faced Englishman out for a Sunday stroll.”

  Lisandro nodded, annoyed with himself that Stephen seemed to have a stronger grip on managing things than he did. Lisandro wasn’t one for playing second fiddle, but with so much at stake, his pride would simply have to endure it.

  Stephen leaned in close. “Just remember you are the one who is going to have to get Maria de Elizondo home to her family. Springing her from her prison in London may be the easy part. Getting the two of you back to Spain is going to be fraught with danger.”

  Lisandro didn’t even want to think about the
journey home. All that mattered was finding Maria and then figuring out the best way to rescue her.

  “Here we go,” said Stephen.

  His friend stepped nonchalantly off the pavement and crossed the road. He walked past the front of the church, then stopped a little way up the street to peer in a shop’s window, a good ten yards behind Alba.

  You are very good, my friend.

  It was an honor to watch a master at work. For such a large man, Sir Stephen Moore possessed an almost magical ability to blend into crowds. People might see him, but he moved in such a way that their brains seemed to barely register his presence. He was a ghost walking among them.

  The moment Señor Alba made to move away from the church and walk farther down George Street, Stephen followed. Lisandro waited until they were almost out of sight, then started slowly after them.

  Ten minutes of turning left and right into laneways and streets kept him on his toes. More than once, Lisandro found himself leaping into a shop’s doorway to avoid being seen. It was hard staying on both Señor Alba and Sir Stephen’s tail without losing them.

  He had just turned left out of Harley Street and into Queen Anne when a hand reached out and took a firm hold of his sleeve. Stephen pulled him into the front of a butcher’s shop and dragged him toward the back. As he passed by the counter, Stephen nodded to the owner. “A pound of your best pork sausages please, my good man.”

  At the rear of the shop, he let go of Lisandro’s arm. “Sorry. I had to do that. Couldn’t have you wandering any farther down the street. Our friend just walked in the front door of number nine.”

  Relief washed over him. Finally, they had something solid to work with, to build their hopes upon. If they had located where Maria was being held, the chances of being able to successfully rescue her had suddenly risen.

  The thud of the butcher’s cleaver cutting through meat and then hitting the wooden block interrupted their conversation. Without batting an eyelid, Stephen pointed to a tray of pork pies which sat on the nearby counter. “Oh, and can we have a half dozen of the pies? They look good.”