The Memory of Your Kiss

by Wilma Counts

  “I give ’im a piece o’ bread. He threw it on the floor.” It was another male voice.

  “Well, give it back to him. Or pick him up. Or something. You got a kid. You should know how to deal with him.”

  Scrubb grunted and said, “Ain’t seen my boy in ten years ’n’ more.” But he apparently did pick the child up, for the tone of his cries changed momentarily, then resumed their pitch.

  The window, set off to the side of the alley door, was too high for any of them to see into the room from the ground. “We need to get a look inside,” Zachary whispered.

  “Could just rush them,” McIntyre responded. “Have surprise on our side.”

  “We don’t even know that’s the right baby, do we?” Richardson asked. “Besides, he might get hurt. Especially if they are armed.”

  They stood in silent frustration. Zachary ran a hand through his hair. Finally, Richardson spoke again.

  “Quintin, you are the only one who knows William. If we braced ourselves against the wall, you could stand on our knees and perhaps see in.”

  Zachary mentally measured the distance. “That might work.”

  With their help and bracing himself against the wall, too, he managed to look into the room. It had a bed, a table, three wooden chairs, and an unlit coal fireplace. There was also a nightstand that probably held a chamber pot and a dresser with a wash basin and a ewer. All this Zachary saw in a mere glimpse, for his attention riveted on the human figures in the room.

  William. And two men. William, alive and so far looking none the worse for his ordeal, though Zachary’s heart wrenched at seeing his tears of fear and despair. Once more, a vision of Lucas in such a circumstance flashed across his mind. William was dressed in only a nappy and a nightshirt. His feet were bare. The two men looked to be in their mid to late twenties. The one holding William was an exceptionally big man with already thinning dark hair; the other had a full head of sandy hair. Dressed as dock workers, they were unkempt and dirty. They sat at a table on which could be seen the remains of a sparse meal. The dark-haired one had William on his knee and seemed to be trying to distract him. So that was Scrubb; the other must be Olson. Zachary saw no sign of a weapon other than a bread knife on the table.

  He motioned for Richardson and McIntyre to let him down. They moved slightly away from the window, and he had just finished describing the layout of the room when they heard the crunch of boots approaching. They quickly covered the lantern and flattened themselves against the wall under the window. Then they heard the visitor throw open the door to the room above.

  “Ah, my little treasure. My ticket to the good life. Come to Cousin Percy.” The speaker apparently snatched William from Scrubb’s arms, for the child let go with a loud screech of fear and rage.

  Zachary mouthed “Laughton.” Richardson and McIntyre nodded.

  “Now look what you done. He was startin’ to quiet down,” Scrubb said.

  “He’ll quiet soon enough once he hits the river. Just make sure you do it where the river currents will wash the body ashore while it is still recognizable. They have to be able to identify him—not just another unwanted baby tossed away like so much flotsam and jetsam.”

  William was still squalling.

  “Here. Take him,” Laughton said in disgust. Then he gave a snort of surprise. “What the—?”

  Now Laughton was furious. “You idiots! You blithering damned idiots!”

  “Wha—?”

  “Who you callin’—?”

  “You got the wrong damned brat,” Laughton roared. “This isn’t Paxton.”

  “He was the only baby we saw in the Paxton nursery.” This was Olson’s voice.

  “How do you know it ain’t him?” Scrubb asked. “Babies all look alike.”

  “Look at his feet. Paxton heirs always have a tattoo on the inside of their right ankles. A pair of crossed swords.”

  “Well, you didn’t tell us to look for no bloody tattoo.” Olson sounded both belligerent and defensive.

  “An’ we didn’t see but one baby,” Scrubb said.

  McIntyre touched Zachary’s shoulder and whispered, “Shouldn’t we put a stop to this?”

  “If we go charging in there like a mad bull, that little boy will get hurt,” Richardson said, also in a whisper.

  “Let’s give it another minute or two,” Zachary said. “If they come out, they will come one at a time through that side door. It will be easier to take them.”

  Within the room Laughton was still fuming. “What a mess. This is no good to me at all. You’ll have to go back and get the right brat.”

  “I ain’t goin’ back there,” Olson declared.

  “Me neither,” Scrubb said. “Never do the same house twice. Bad luck, don’t you know?”

  “Then you don’t get paid,” Laughton threatened.

  “We’ll get paid if you know what’s good for you.” Olson’s threat sounded more ominous than the other’s had.

  “Look—I’ll pay you twice as much if you go back for the other boy.” This time it was a desperate plea, not a threat.

  A long silence followed, broken only by William’s pitiable cries.

  “Too risky. They might have figured it out by now. Too risky by half.”

  “I’ll find someone else then.” Laughton’s voice sounded as though he had turned away. “Right now, I have a hackney cab waiting.” The listeners heard the door open.

  “What should we do with this kid?” Scrubb asked.

  Laughton apparently turned back. “I don’t care. The river? Leave him on some church doorstep. Do what you will.” The door snapped shut.

  Scrubb was heard to mutter, “Don’t seem right to drown ‘im just because he don’t got that tattoo. No profit in that.”

  Zachary and Adam crouched on either side of the steps to the side street outer door, their weapons drawn. As Laughton’s boots touched the ground, Zachary said softly, “Good evening, Laughton. Only I suppose it is more accurately morning now, isn’t it?”

  “Wha—? You!” Laughton started to reach for a weapon.

  Zachary pressed his own pistol against Laughton’s ribs. “Don’t even think about it. I would truly enjoy pulling this trigger. Quietly, now.”

  Richardson relieved Laughton of his weapon and they nudged him into the alley where McIntyre still listened beneath the window. Tearing Laughton’s own neck cloth into long strips, they tied his hands behind his back and a gag over his mouth, then forced him to sit in the muck on the ground.

  “They’re trying to decide what to do,” McIntyre whispered. “Right now they are opting to give the boy to Olson’s sister to leave as a foundling.”

  “I think that will prove unnecessary.” Zachary motioned Richardson to guard the prisoner. “If he moves, kill him,” Zachary said, venting his own cold fury. “Come with me, Cam,” he said to McIntyre.

  They went to the side street door, opened it, and boldly walked down the hall to where they saw light under a door. As they pushed into the room, Olson, his back to the door, said, “Forgot something, did you?” Something in Scrubb’s expression caught his attention. He twisted to face two drawn pistols.

  “As a matter of fact, we did,” Zachary said. “Hand over that child.”

  “Not so fast, your lordship, sir,” Scrubb said sarcastically. He was a big man—even bigger than he had seemed initially. He still held William on his lap. “See this here little neck?” He caressed the child’s neck with a huge hand. “I could break it just like that.” He snapped the fingers of his other hand. “Be like breaking the neck of a kitten.”

  Zachary cursed himself for not seeing this possibility. He lowered his weapon, as did McIntyre.

  “Get their barkers, Dan.” Scrubb stood, still holding William, whose sobs were more subdued for the moment. Zachary and McIntyre turned over their guns.

  Scrubb said, “Now, you two stand aside as me ’n’ Dan here take our leave.”

  Daniel Olson seemed unused to having a weapon in hand at a
ll, and especially inept with one in each hand. Such firepower in the hands of the ignorant was extremely hazardous, Zachary reminded himself as the two men backed toward the still open door, Scrubb first, still holding William.

  As they passed Zachary, William cried out and reached toward this person he apparently recognized with positive feelings. That suddenly stiff little body in his arms seemed to startle Scrubb, whose attention was momentarily diverted and he was unaware of the man in the doorway behind him who dealt him a resounding blow to the head. Scrubb uttered a small grunt and, already unconscious, slowly sank to his knees—still with the baby in his arms—then down completely.

  McIntyre dove at Olson’s legs. Olson dropped one of the guns, but fired the other. Zachary felt a burning sensation when the bullet grazed the flesh of his forearm as he reached to untangle William from the prostrate form of Scrubb. McIntyre, having knocked the inept Olson to the floor, managed to retrieve both weapons.

  Ruskin, with Lowell right behind him, stepped into the room and said casually, “Well, you almost managed without our help. Bow Street’s reputation remains intact, though.”

  He and Lowell—more prepared in this regard than Zachary and his Rangers—put manacles on these two prisoners. Richardson prodded a begrimed and smelly Laughton into the room. The Bow Street men removed his gag, but saw that he was bound more securely than before. Scrubb had regained consciousness, but still seemed woozy.

  Zachary hugged William close, saying over and over, “It’s all right, little man. You’re safe. I’ve got you. Nobody’s going to hurt you anymore.” He continued to hold him with one arm as McIntyre used a knife to open his other sleeve and wrap his wound tightly with strips from a handkerchief.

  Ruskin said, “We’ll see to these three. There are two hackney cabs out there on the street—ours and his.” He jerked a thumb at Laughton. “Your carriage is out there, too. We’ll let you know when they come up on the docket at Old Bailey. Kidnapping. That’s a hanging offense, you know.”

  Zachary saw Laughton blanch at this, but the other two were more stoic. “Thanks,” he said, lifting his wounded arm in a salute of sorts.

  As they clambered into the landau, Thornton said, “You fellows had all the fun. Next time I want to play too.”

  “With luck, there won’t be any next time,” Zachary said. He held William on his lap, glad to see the exhausted baby fall asleep with the swaying of the carriage.

  “By the way, Quintin,” Richardson said, “you owe McIntyre and me new breeches for our uniforms.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Sydney arrived home to find the entire household in an uproar. Her first concern was to reassure herself that Jonathan was all right—he slept soundly—even as she worried about William. Where was he? Why? Why had someone taken William? Roberts had already seen to barring the door the intruders had used. Bessie Watkins was more frightened than injured by her ordeal, but Sydney sent her to bed and ordered another maid to move Jonathan’s crib back into the boys’ room and to stay with him for what remained of the night.

  There seemed two possible explanations for this disaster. First, it was a bizarre, horrible mix-up. Those scoundrels who had taken William had been after Jonathan. In that case, Percival Laughton was somehow involved and she recalled very well how Henry had felt about his cousin. In the second possible explanation, William was the target and the only ones who might remotely consider taking such measures against baby William were Lady Ryesdale’s in-laws. Her intuition told her the first explanation was by far the more probable. She prayed fervently that Zachary could find William and bring him home safe.

  Even though he had been at Paxton House such a short time, and even though she knew and welcomed the fact that William had a mother who loved him, Sydney had grown to love this child as her own. She marveled at his growth, felt sorrow at his pains just as she did with Jonathan. The boys were very alike in appearance, but already no one who knew them had any difficulty telling them apart. Perhaps because he had so far been an only child, Jonathan was quieter, more self-contained, while William was more gregarious, eager to share.

  “I never expected to love William so much,” she said tearfully to Aunt Harriet and Celia, who had come in moments ago along with Trevor Harrelson.

  The four of them sat in the smaller family drawing room with the door ajar, simultaneously sharing their anxiety and trying to avoid it as they waited.

  “Have you informed Lady Ryesdale yet?” Aunt Harriet asked.

  “I sent a note saying we had an emergency and ask that she come here as soon as possible. But, frankly, at this hour, I have no idea when, or even if, she will get it. That is such a strange household.”

  No one had a response to this.

  They tried to reason out the who and why of such a terrible deed. Sydney shared her initial thoughts on the matter.

  “If Laughton is behind this, that baby’s life may be in real danger,” Harrelson said. “However,” he added on hearing all three women gasp, “I happen to know that Zachary has had him watched ever since he returned to London. The major will have things in hand.”

  “I just keep thinking of that poor, scared little boy in the hands of some ruffian,” Celia said.

  “He is such a sweet child,” Aunt Harriet observed. “It is just so unfair that innocent children are often made to suffer so.”

  Sydney appreciated their sharing her worry, but she only half listened, attuned as she was to any sound of someone arriving below. Finally she heard the pounding of the door knocker, but the voice that followed was not the one she wanted to hear. It was Louisa’s voice, not Zachary’s.

  Louisa, in a rather drab green cotton dress and no jewelry, entered the drawing room, saying, “I came as soon as I could. What is it? Has something happened to William? Is he ill? I must see him.”

  Sydney patted the cushion of the couch next to her. “Come and sit down, Louisa.” She took Louisa’s hand in her own. “William is not here.”

  “Not here? What do you mean ‘not here’?” Her voice rose in panic.

  Not knowing how else she might put it, Sydney simply blurted out, “He has been kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped? My William? Why, for heaven’s sake? Who?”

  “Major Quintin and his friends are looking for him now,” Aunt Harriet said, obviously trying to inject calm into the discussion.

  “In a city of a million people and more? Oh. Oh. Oh.” Louisa took deep breaths trying to control her sobs. “T-tell me what happened.”

  As matter-of-factly as she could, Sydney did so, but she could not stop the tears streaming down her face.

  “But why?” Louisa persisted. “I-I thought he would be so safe here.”

  Sydney choked back a sob as she said, “I think it may have been an accident—that they may have mistaken William for Jonathan. Henry’s cousin, Percival Laughton—”

  Louisa’s eyes held sheer terror as she said, “Oh, my God! Henry always distrusted him. Thought him capable of almost anything.”

  Harrelson now said, “It may be possible, Lady Ryesdale, that it was not a mistake, that William really was the target.”

  “William? Oh, I shouldn’t think so. There is no title associated with William—nor a great fortune.”

  “It is no secret in the clubs that Baron Rysedale’s family disapproved of your—uh—relationship with Paxton,” Harrelson said.

  “That is true,” Louisa admitted. “But they direct their venom at me. They do not recognize that William even exists.”

  “What if he suddenly did not exist?” Aunt Harriet asked gently.

  Louisa took time to think before she responded. “I cannot see either the dowager or her son George sullying their noble hands in such a thing as housebreaking or kidnapping. Ralph would have done so, but they wouldn’t. And of course Ralph has been out of the country ever since—since—”

  “That duel,” Harrelson said, and she nodded.

  There seemed nothing else of substance to say on the matter,
so Sydney said, “Well—now we wait.” She rose. “I’ll have Roberts bring us some coffee.”

  A predawn glimmer of light shone through gaps in the drapes when at last they heard a clamor in the entrance below, then the muffled sound of boots on carpeted stairs. Suddenly Zachary stood framed in the doorway, holding a sleepy looking William on one arm.

  “Oh, thank God,” Sydney said.

  Louisa rushed over to gather her son in her own arms and shower him with kisses. Sydney could not resist just touching him and stood with one arm embracing Louisa’s shoulders and the other hand caressing William’s back.

  As Zachary moved farther into the room, Richardson and McIntyre followed him. Aunt Harriet stepped into the hallway briefly, then resumed her seat as Sydney invited the newcomers to sit as well. “Please. You must tell us what happened.”

  Richardson gestured at his stained breeches and scuffed boots. “We are hardly fit to be in an elegant drawing room.”

  “Fiddlesticks!” she said. “We are so happy to see you and to have William back safe that we would welcome you covered top to toes in mud—or—or worse.”

  Roberts and a footman entered with trays: more coffee and a pitcher of ale and a pitcher of cider along with glasses and cups. Roberts said quietly to Sydney, “Cook is preparing an early breakfast, my lady.” Sydney caught Aunt Harriet’s eye and mouthed a “thank you.”

  When everyone had a drink of choice in hand, she said, “Now—do tell us.”

  “It was Laughton, just as we thought,” Zachary began. He recounted the rescue mission with an occasional correction or elaboration from the other two—as well as incoherent but happy interjections from William.

  The next day Sydney had additional locks put on outside doors, and she spent hours in the nursery with both boys. Every day that week Louisa somehow managed a visit to Paxton House for an hour or so. Sydney was glad that not once had Louisa blamed her for William’s ordeal. For Sydney, the rest of the month of July was anticlimactic—historic celebrations of the end of the war notwithstanding.

  The Prince Regent’s much talked-of gala at Carleton House went off as planned, but in the event turned out to be something of a disappointment. Not that her expectations had been so very high to start with. She was quite sure she had received an invitation only because her late husband had lent nominal support to the Tories. These days the prince—who had once allied himself with his father’s Whig enemies—now that he was regent, actively courted the Tories.