by Joyce Alec
“Can you help me escape from here?” he asked, looking at the maid keenly. “I should not be kept within this room against my consent. Surely, you can see that?”
The maid swallowed hard, trembling visibly.
“Will you hurry up, Polly?”
A harsh, brazen voice sent a jolt of surprise through Arthur. There was someone else just outside the door, someone who had perhaps heard everything he had just said.
“I’m sorry, Lord Wickton,” Polly whispered, her hand resting against her heart as if she wanted to hide the frantic heartbeat from him. She said nothing more, her eyes lingering on him for just a second more before she turned away, pulling the door closed tightly behind her with a loud crash that seemed to drag down Arthur’s spirits with it.
Leaning back against the wall, Arthur took in a long breath and allowed his eyes to close. The maid—Polly—had been his one opportunity to find out why he was here, why he had been forced to stay within this small room, but she had gone from him with barely more than a word.
I’m sorry.
Her final words echoed around his mind, making Arthur’s stomach tighten. Had she truly meant it? Had she truly felt sorry for his ordeal? There had been a touch of sympathy in those words, which meant that he might, in fact, be able to garner more from her the next time she came to his rooms with a tray—if it was to be her who came each and every time.
Despite his whirling thoughts, Arthur felt his stomach grumble furiously. The tray did appear to be quite well stocked, although it was nothing compared to what he might have enjoyed at home. Sighing heavily and fighting the panic that churned within him, threatening to steal the last of his composure, Arthur made his way towards the small table and chair and sat down heavily. A cloud of dust spun out from the chair underneath him, swirling around his legs. No one had used this room for some time, it seemed.
Putting his head in his hands for a few moments, Arthur forced a steady breath or two and tried to think clearly. He was being kept here by Lord Davenport, it appeared. The name had come to him as he had been looking at the maid, recalling with a sharpness that had startled him just what had been spoken between himself and Lord Davenport back at White’s. It was almost impossible to believe that a gentleman such as Lord Davenport would do something this foolish, and certainly Arthur did not want to think that he had been the one to shoot at the driver of Arthur’s hackney, but as far as he knew, he did not have any other particular enemies. Lord Davenport was, however, a gentleman and whilst he had appeared angry that Arthur was going to speak to Miss Smythe about the truth of Lord Davenport’s character, surely that did not mean that he would then attempt to remove Arthur from society in order to ensure that he could do as he pleased? It seemed foolish and more than a little ridiculous to go to such lengths as this!
“Unless he fears that I shall do damage to his reputation in some way,” Arthur murmured to himself, frowning hard. That would be an excellent motivation for any gentleman of the ton, for reputation was worth more than all the money and wealth one possessed. One could have a fortune enough to dazzle all the young ladies and their mothers, but a stain on one’s reputation would render all of that useless. If Arthur had spoken to Miss Smythe about what he had said to Lord Davenport, then there was, of course, the chance that the ton would become aware of it. Certainly, Miss Smythe would not have continued with their growing acquaintance, Arthur was quite certain about that, which would mean that Lord Davenport would have to endure the laughter of the ton at his supposed rejection by a wallflower.
Arthur looked up, his hands dropping to the table. Perhaps that was it. To be rejected by a wallflower was more than a little embarrassing. A wallflower, just as Miss Smythe was, usually accepted any and all considerations from any gentleman whatsoever, although Miss Smythe was a little more discerning that the rest of the wallflowers. To have someone such as she turn her back on Lord Davenport, to state clearly that she no longer wished to be courted by him, would be humiliating for Lord Davenport. In fact, he could find himself the laughing stock of the beau monde for some weeks, for to be rejected by a wallflower was to be made out to be a fool. It would appear to the ton that there was something lacking in his character, something about him that was unattractive and unappealing. To have a wallflower turn her back on you was almost shameful!
“And yet, that was what Miss Smythe was bound to do,” Arthur murmured to himself, going cold all over at the thought. Miss Smythe was, as he well knew, both wise and discerning. She had been greatly upset by Lord Davenport’s behavior that night of the ball and would not be inclined to simply forgive him merely because he wished her to. That was not the sort of lady she was. Arthur knew that Miss Smythe would consider everything carefully and then go on to make a decision about what she would need to do next. He himself had wanted to speak to her about Lord Davenport, had wanted to ensure that she was in no doubt that the man was not the sort of gentleman that would treat her kindly. That meant that Lord Davenport would feel the sting of a wallflower’s rejection and would, thereafter, suffer the embarrassment of the ton knowing of Miss Smythe’s decision.
Perhaps that was too much for Lord Davenport to bear, or even to consider. He had made his mind up that Miss Smythe was the lady for him, that she was to be the perfect bride in almost every sense of the word. Lord Davenport had made it quite clear that he believed Miss Smythe would simply learn to accept that her place was to remain utterly silent and accepting, no matter what Lord Davenport chose to do. Mayhap Lord Davenport feared that he might not find so biddable a wife in any other young lady, although Arthur could not believe that to be the case. Mayhap Lord Davenport truly did find Miss Smythe pleasant company, found her to be beautiful enough to satisfy him, and therefore did not wish all of his hard work in furthering their acquaintance to be lost.
“But that does not help my present situation,” Arthur muttered to himself, passing one hand over his eyes as he looked down at the tray of refreshments and the pot of tea that he suddenly found himself desperate for. The urge to panic, to throw himself about the room in a desperate attempt to find a way out, continued to claw at him, but Arthur battled it regardless. Losing his composure and giving in to fear would do him no good at present. Nor would refusing to eat a single thing, for if he wished to find a way out from this room, then he would need to keep his strength up. Almost unwillingly, as though he wanted to pretend that he did not hear the rumbling of his stomach or feel the dryness of his throat, Arthur reached out and picked up a small cake, biting into it greedily. His stomach applauded as he swallowed, before begging for more.
Pouring the tea, Arthur added a small dash of milk and drank it so quickly that he burned his tongue. He did not care. He was desperate for relief, desperate to satisfy the raging thirst that had suddenly settled itself on him. The pain in his head began to diminish all the more as he drank a second cup of tea, a small sigh leaving his lips as he sat back in his chair.
Gingerly, Arthur reached around and prodded the back of his head. Light flashed in his head as his eyes slammed closed, his fingers finding the spot where the pain came from. Looking at his fingers, Arthur was relieved to see there was no sign of blood anywhere, which meant that there must be bruising only—although it felt as though his skull had been cracked and broken given the pain that was now ricocheting around his head.
His hand dropped to his lap as Arthur slowly opened his eyes, his heart beating a trifle more quickly than before. Someone had attacked him, slammed something heavy into the back of his head, and then brought him here to Lord Davenport’s townhouse—for that must surely be where he was. Lord Davenport could not have done such a thing on his own, which meant that there were others involved, other men that either Lord Davenport ordered around, or who found themselves willing to do as was asked in exchange for some sort of reward. Either way, Lord Davenport was behind Arthur’s imprisonment, behind the injury to his head. The only question was, now that he had him safely behind the heavy, locked door, just wha
t did Lord Davenport intend to do with Arthur now?
6
Emily held her head high as she knocked on the door of Lord Wickton’s townhouse, her stomach swirling with butterflies as she waited for the butler to respond.
“Miss Smythe.”
The butler looked grave as he beckoned Emily inside, sending a wave of concern crashing over her heart.
“Is something the matter?” she asked, looking carefully at the butler as she walked into the house. “Is Lord Wickton unwell?”
The butler shook his head, shifting a little uneasily. “I cannot say whether he is unwell or not,” the butler replied, his eyes darting to her own for a moment. “That is to say, Miss Smythe, that we cannot find the master.”
The breath left her body in a rush, leaving her feeling weak for a moment. “You do not know where he is?” she asked, her voice breathless. “Is that what you are trying to say?”
“Indeed,” the butler replied, now looking at her squarely in the face. “You have not seen him in town, Miss Smythe, have you?”
Emily shook her head, taking in small, ragged breaths as she attempted to fight off the cloud of panic that immediately settled over her. “No,” she replied honestly. “No, I have not.” Silence lingered for a moment or two as she and the butler looked at one another. In that moment, sharing the same concern and fear, they were of one class, no longer separated by title and wealth. They were both simply afraid for what had become of Lord Wickton.
“The last time we saw the master, he was going to White’s,” the butler said, clearing his throat and shuffling his feet just a little. “That was some days ago now. Three, I think.”
Emily swallowed hard, her hands tightening into fists as she forced herself to remain calm and do her level best to think clearly. “That was the night of the ball,” she said aloud, recalling how Lord Wickton had taken her back to her own house after Lord Davenport’s disappointing choice that had left her feeling so ashamed and broken. “You say he went to White’s thereafter?”
The butler nodded. “The staff were told to retire and the master did not even take the carriage. He took a hackney.”
Emily frowned and rubbed at her forehead. “He left the carriage here?”
“Yes.”
“And he went to White’s.”
“As far as I am aware, that was his chosen destination,” the butler said quickly. “I cannot tell where else he might have chosen to go thereafter.”
Lord Davenport was to be there that night, Emily recalled, remembering how Lord Davenport had encouraged Lord Wickton to join in a game of cards at White’s once the ball was at an end. Has he seen Lord Wickton, mayhap?
Lord Davenport had not been seen since his flurry of flowers and carefully written note some days before. Despite the fact that Emily had written a short note back to him in response, despite the fact that she had stated that he could call upon her just as soon as he wished, she had not heard from the gentleman. At the very least, she had expected to receive a note back from Lord Davenport, given that he was meant to be so very keen to have her forgiveness, but there had been nothing.
“You do not know where he might be?” the butler asked, looking into Emily’s face as though she might have the answers. “The staff are becoming somewhat concerned and we do not know what to do.”
Emily felt her mind cloud with fear. Fear that stole her breath and made her skin prickle with unease.
“You must write to his sister, Lady Glenister, at once,” she said with a good deal more steadiness in her voice than she felt. “She must know that there is some concern over her brother. Even if Lord Wickton returns soon after the letter has been sent, it will be the right thing to do.”
The butler nodded, his hands twisting this way and that as he held them in front of himself.
“In fact, I shall write the letter,” Emily decided firmly, trying to act in a decisive manner despite the worry that was tormenting her mind. “I shall do so this very afternoon.”
The butler looked distinctly relieved. “And what else should we do, Miss Smythe?”
Emily hesitated, not at all certain that she was about to give the best advice. “I think you ought to speak to a Bow Street Runner,” she said, speaking of the men who were tasked with specific duties as regarded matters such as this. “They will be able to search for Lord Wickton in places that neither you nor I can attend.” She managed a tight smile and saw the butler’s relief spread across his expression. “You have sent a boy to White’s, have you not? To discover whether or not someone there knew where Lord Wickton went?”
“No, I have not,” the butler replied, shifting from foot to foot in a sudden agitation. “That is, Miss Smythe, I did not know whether or not it was my place.”
Emily nodded, aware that this was an extraordinary situation and that the butler could not be expected to know precisely what to do. “That is no matter,” she stated decisively. “I shall go of my own volition.”
The butler goggled at her. “To White’s?” he repeated, astonished. “Are you quite certain?”
Emily nodded again. “Of course. I shall send a note if there is anything worth discovering. You should, however, have a Bow Street Runner brought to the house at once. Send a boy now and insist that he does not leave until a man goes with him. You must ensure they are aware of the severity of the situation.”
Nodding again, the butler bowed his head in deference and Emily noted that the man was no longer shifting from side to side in agitation, nor were his hands twisting in front of him. It was, it seemed, as though the butler had felt himself adrift and required someone else to inform him of the actions he ought to take.
“I shall go to White’s at once,” Emily said, taking her leave of the butler. “As I have said, I shall write if there is news.” Looking over her shoulder, she fixed her gaze on the butler. “And you will send me a message if the Bow Street Runner should find anything?”
“Of course, my lady, of course,” the butler replied, nodding fervently as he walked to the door. “I shall at once. I am most grateful for your assistance.”
Emily managed a tight smile, refusing to allow the panic she felt to wash over her and steal her control from her. “I am quite certain that he has simply drunk a little too much and is resting at another’s home,” she said, aware that Lord Wickton was not the sort of gentleman to do such a thing, but unable to forget just how angry he had been that evening. Mayhap he had gone to seek out Lord Davenport and had found himself partaking of one too many brandies. “Or he has taken unwell and a friend has insisted that he rest until he has recovered completely.” So saying, she waited for the butler to open the door and then stepped back outside into the beautiful summer afternoon. Her maid was standing on the first step, waiting for her, and Emily turned to reassure the butler once more.
“I am certain all will be well again very soon,” she said, wishing that she felt the same certainty that she was forcing into her own voice. “I shall go at once.”
“Thank you, Miss Smythe,” the butler said as she turned to walk away. “I will keep you informed, of course.”
The hackney that Emily had hailed was not at all comfortable, although Emily did wonder if it was her own nervous tension that seemed to make sitting so uncomfortable. She shifted in her seat, her eyes darting from one place to the next and never quite managing to linger on anything in particular. Her maid sat opposite her, her eyes fixed on the passing London scenes just outside the window, leaving Emily to her own thoughts.
The fear that Emily felt over Lord Wickton was growing steadily. She had managed to recover from the shock of hearing that he was missing—and had been missing since the night of the ball—rather quickly. Emily had the realization that there was no one to help either herself or Lord Wickton’s staff to discover where he was. The butler had clearly been in some distress over his master’s disappearance and since she was the only one who had come in search of Lord Wickton, the responsibility to help locate him was now rest
ing on her shoulders. Charlotte, Lord Wickton’s sister, would have to be informed of this at once, for even though there was a chance that Lord Wickton might be found very soon, even though Lord Wickton might simply be ill and recovering somewhere nearby, Emily knew that it was her duty to inform Lady Glenister of what had occurred. Thankfully, she and Charlotte had been very dear friends and, even now, often exchanged letters to keep each other well informed of all that was happening in their lives. Not that Emily had been able to speak of anything other the Season of late, knowing that Charlotte was hopeful that Emily might find a suitable match.
Swallowing hard, Emily pushed such thoughts away. She did not need to think of Lord Davenport and his roses and sweet words that now seemed so insincere.
Unless, she thought, her hands tightening suddenly on the seat as she grasped it, unless Lord Davenport and Lord Wickton are connected in some way. Could it be that Lord Wickton’s disappearance has something to do with Lord Davenport’s absence? She did not know for certain whether or not Lord Davenport was missing from society also, for whilst she had not seen him since he had first written to her, she had never once considered that he might be missing or gone from his townhouse without explanation. Was there a chance that the two gentlemen were caught up in something? Her heart began to shake with fright in her chest, her breath catching as her mind filled with thoughts and questions. Surely nothing untoward could have occurred? She knew that Wickton had been furious over Lord Davenport’s behavior, but surely that did not mean that Lord Wickton had done anything foolish?
Could Lord Wickton have called Lord Davenport out?
Shaking her head, Emily tried to consider things carefully. She was not connected to Lord Wickton in any way, which meant that he surely could not have called Lord Davenport out over some consideration for her honor. That would be far too grave a response for what had occurred, besides which, Emily did not think that she was that significant to Lord Wickton. No, it could not be that. There had not been a duel over the slight. Her honor had not been fought for by Lord Wickton. That was nothing more than a fanciful, terrible dream.
