Viewing the scene from the crest of a wooded rise some distance above the hopeful rider, Neil snapped his spyglass shut. He’d been in place for a good hour or more. It had galled him to have to tarry so long, but with Clapham and his ilk hunting him, caution had to be his byword if he hoped to survive long enough to outwit them. He had needed to watch the road to make sure that no one followed. Now that caution found its reward: a mark whose fat purse he remembered from the inn in Durham, where Neil had ordered up a hasty meal to be eaten in the saddle and the rider had heaved himself down from his mount and pulled out his bulging purse to toss a handful of coins to the ostler who ran up to tend the horse. Up until this point, Neil’s journey had been cursed by bad luck. His horse had stumbled and come up lame no sooner than he had left London behind, and he’d had, perforce, to exchange the beast for another. Without sufficient coin to purchase a fresh mount, the transaction (theft) had taken more time than he would have liked, and the new horse itself had proved to be the veriest bone-setter. As a result, the closed carriage with Lady Elizabeth inside was long gone before he had gotten anywhere near it. By dint of discreet questioning of the toll keepers along the Great North Road, various ostlers, and, later, when all indications were that the carriage had turned off toward the sea, certain select others he had encountered, he had managed to track it to its destination. But still he had not been completely certain that the carriage he was following was the one he sought until he beheld Trelawney Castle.
He knew this place. He knew what took place within its walls. Though he did not yet know who was responsible, he knew why they had brought her here.
The knowledge had caused a hard, cold knot of anger to form in his breast.
As a youth, he had witnessed the castle’s depravities. He knew what would happen inside those walls, just as soon as the last guest had been admitted and the gates were once again closed. In his current incarnation, even if it had been played out in front of his nose, he would not have felt the slightest flicker of interest in what was occurring—that is, if Lady Elizabeth had not been inside.
But she was. He was as sure of it as it was possible to be given the fact that he had not as yet actually set eyes on her. He had, however, spent nearly thirty-six hours in the saddle tracking her down.
Somewhat to his surprise—it had been years since anyone else’s welfare had mattered a whit to him—he found he disliked extremely the idea of the lovely bright warmth of her being subjected to the kind of use the men who frequented this place would make of her. In the days of his youth, the place had been the scene of such orgies and debauchery that it had become legend. Nowadays, as he had learned, on the third Sunday of certain months the so-called Bainbridge Society, a loose collection of scalawags who formed a social circle headed by the Earl of Bainbridge—ranging from the lowest of the low amongst the aristocracy, to certain wealthy Cits, to shadier figures whose identities were never revealed—purchased doxies here. Or, rather, what they were pleased to consider doxies. Most of the females were girls fresh from the country, young and chaste, who had been cozened or stolen into a life of prostitution with no idea what they were in for. Guaranteed virgins all, they brought a premium price amongst this lot, with the fear of the pox running rampant through London as it was. After a few days of vigorous deflowering behind the protective walls of the castle, the men would disburse and the girls would be resold, some to London abbesses for use in brothels, others in France and elsewhere abroad. When they were no longer young and fetching enough to earn their keep in a brothel, their most likely destination would be the streets.
It was a sad end that unfortunately befell many females in these hard times.
Someone had to have been paid, and paid well, to deliver one such as Lady Elizabeth into their hands. The who and why of it he would ascertain later. For now, his mission was to rescue the chit.
Having found what he hoped was the key to the castle, so to speak, in the person of the lone rider, Neil sent his poor excuse for a horse down the wooded slope toward the road. A thick layer of fallen leaves built up over countless autumns was treacherous under the beast’s hooves. The animal almost lost its footing half a dozen times, sliding down the hill until he could pull it up. Coupled with the darkness, the new greenery budding throughout the woods was just about dense enough to provide concealment, he judged. And concealment was crucial to his plan: the last thing he wanted was for his mark to see him coming, take it into his head that he was in danger, and ride for it, shouting for help. Admission to the castle was by invitation only. No more than a select few even knew that the club existed, or what use was made of the old fortress by the men who flocked to it on nights such as this. Unfortunately, he did not possess the necessary invitation, and trying to force his way into the heavily guarded island enclave was likely to cause more havoc than he wanted to raise. Better to do the thing quietly, if he could.
When he gained the road, he was, as he had intended, only a short distance behind the solitary rider. Setting his heels to his mount’s sides, he quickly caught up, alert and ready in case the man should sense danger and think to set up an outcry.
“Well met, sir,” Neil said, tipping his hat as the bag of bones he bestrode fell in beside the other horse, a sleek chestnut that bore its rider’s considerable weight with ease.
After no more than a startled glance, the rider—middle-aged, with a pronounced paunch and a bulbous nose that was all that was readily discernible of his features beneath his hat—seemed glad enough to see him.
“By jove, you snuck up on me! I thought I was all alone out here. Are you for the castle, too, then? I hear they’ve some prime articles this go-round.”
By his accent, Neil judged him a Yorkshireman. The voice was thickened by drink and cheerful, no doubt as a result of the amusement he was anticipating when he gained his destination. A wealthy Cit, from all signs.
Neil’s lip curled. Rapine as sport had never held any appeal for him, and he felt contempt for those who took pleasure from it. He had occasional needs, and he satisfied them as and when he could, but never with a partner who was less than willing.
“You’ve an invitation?” he asked.
“Aye, in my bag.” The man patted the saddlebag on his right with clear satisfaction. “Are we late, d’ye think?”
“Not too late.”
“The ferry takes no passengers after eleven, you know. My horse threw a shoe and I had to wait in Durham for it to be reshod, else I would have been here long since.”
“We’ve time still.”
The forest crowded close to the road on Neil’s right, and to his left more tall trees marched with the steep slope of the land down to the gulley that culminated in, if he remembered his surroundings correctly, a creek. Though there were many sounds—rustling leaves all around, the distant cry of an owl, the steady clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the hard-packed road, the whisper of flowing water—none was such as to give him pause. The bend of the road that would take them the last three hundred or so yards down to the ferry was just beyond. For the moment, they were totally alone and out of view. The wind had risen, carrying the faint smells of woodsmoke and the sea on it, and the temperature had dropped enough to make him glad of his greatcoat.
“’Tis a cold night for a long ride, I’ll be bound. Well, we’ll soon be warm enough.” From the Cit’s lascivious chuckle, there was little doubt of his meaning.
“Indeed.”
The moment was at hand. The simplest course of action—kill the disgusting old fool—was obvious. But it was one Neil realized he would be wiser not to take. The hunt for him would be on in earnest now, and leaving dead bodies about was somewhat akin to leaving a trail of bread crumbs for birds. If he killed, word of it would get back to ears he would rather it didn’t reach, and then the search would hone in. To kill would be to make himself visible to those who sought him.
With that consideration in mind, the blow Neil dealt the Cit as he crowded his mount close beside his vict
im’s horse was tempered: hard enough to bring instant unconsciousness, but not lethal. With nothing more than a surprised grunt, the man slumped sideways into his grip. After that, it was quick work to haul him down from his horse, and bind and gag him with his own garments. Finally he rolled him, still unconscious, down the slope, which was steep enough to prevent any easy return to the road when consciousness at last came back and he managed to free himself, which Neil anticipated should take the rest of the night and probably most of the next day.
Neil felt a moment of regret about the horse—though not a prime bit of blood, it was far superior to his own nag—but the chance that somebody might recognize it was, he judged, too great. Unsaddling it, he sent the beast running, then quickly rifled through the saddlebags. As he had hoped, besides the invitation, there was a plump purse. Adding its contents to his own, he discarded the purse itself, and tossed down the hill, too, the saddle and saddlebags, still stuffed with the various items of apparel that his victim had brought with him. Given the man’s lack of height and immensity of girth, the clothes would be of no use to him. The exception was a black domino, made of fine silk but still far too ordinary to be identified. The garment would probably prove too short for him, but would otherwise serve his purpose admirably by providing a precautionary disguise.
When the Cit was restored to civilization, what had befallen him would be taken to be the work of a robber, or highwayman. Certainly there would be no tie to himself.
Sparing no further thought for his victim, Neil remounted his horse. No more than a few minutes had elapsed, and as he put his heels to the horse’s sides he judged he would still be in plenty of time to make the last ferry to Trelawney Castle.
Chapter Nine
WHEN BETH OPENED HER EYES, it was because someone was slopping a cold, dripping rag across her face. The wet iciness of it shocked her back to groggy awareness.
A middle-aged woman’s raw-boned face swam before her. Inhaling instinctively as she tried to bring it into focus, Beth was thankful to discover that she could now breathe without impediment. The blanket swathing her face was gone, as was the gag. A curious smell—sweetish, heavy—lingered in the air, making her nauseous as she became aware of it. Of course, she remembered now: she had been kidnapped. But why, and by whom, she had no idea. She vaguely recalled regaining consciousness in the carriage, kicking the doors furiously when it slowed at a toll booth in hopes of attracting attention, and being kicked into silence in turn, then drugged by a damp, horrid-smelling rag that was pressed to her face every time she stirred thereafter. That was the scent hanging in the air now. Upon her identifying it, her stomach churned and her head swam. She wanted to close her eyes again in the worst way, but dared not.
I’m in terrible trouble.
“Where am I?” she asked, blinking as she tried to get her eyes to focus. Coarse gray hair in an untidy bun, blunt, unremarkable features, a black gown of cheap, rough wool all coalesced to give her a fuller picture of the woman sitting on the side of the bed, who was clearly a servant of the lower sort.
The woman glanced at her, rheumy blue eyes engaging in a furtive peek, but vouchsafed no reply. The flickering candlelight that lit the small room didn’t help matters as Beth fought to work out the answer to her question for herself. Everything seemed to shimmer when first she looked at it, which she hoped was an effect of the drug rather than the blows to the head she had suffered. How much time had passed since she had last been fully aware of her surroundings she had no way to calculate, but she had vague memories of being forced to drink a cup of broth, and of a midnight stop beside the road in which necessary business had been taken care of. Given that, she felt the time that had elapsed was long rather than short, perhaps as much as a full day. A desperate search would be under way for her by now; she knew that as well as she knew the sun lit the sky. Claire and Gabby would be frantic with fear. The combined resources of Hugh and Nick would be brought to bear, and no stone would be left unturned. They would find her. Of course they would. She must just keep herself safe until then.
If word of what has befallen me gets out, I’ll be ruined.
At the moment, given the exigencies of her situation, such a concern seemed almost stupidly unimportant. Her life might very well be at stake. So far she had not been badly hurt, but her captors had shown an alarming willingness to abuse her. As a result, her head ached badly. Her ribs throbbed where the toe of a man’s boot had landed in initial response to her kicking the carriage door at the toll booth. She was nauseous and dizzy from the drug they had given her. Her mouth was dry and her voice was weak as a result of being gagged for hours upon end. Her limbs felt weak, too—and were still bound, she discovered as she moved, although differently. At least, though her legs were still tied together at the ankles with what felt like rope—she moved them experimentally, just to test the bonds—her arms were pulled above her head. It took her a second or two to absorb the fact that her bound wrists, like her ankles, were fastened securely to the frame of the mean iron bed on which she lay. It clanked as she moved, but the bonds gave no sign of loosening. In other words, nothing substantive had changed: she was still, unbelievably, a prisoner.
Cold fear slid through her veins.
“Who are you?” she tried again, pulling away from the woman’s ministrations. This brought the pale blue eyes up once more.
“Never you mind who I be.” The woman’s accent was as coarse as her face. The rag was withdrawn and plopped down in a white crockery bowl half full of water, which rested on a spindly table beside the bed. Her reddened hands lifted the rag again and squeezed water from it with a practiced move. “You’d best be saving your worries for yourself, ducks. They’ll be coming for ye soon enough.”
“Who—who will be coming for me?”
Despite her best efforts at maintaining her composure, Beth could not quite keep her voice from cracking. Wherever she was—and her quick survey had told her only that she was housed in a tiny, dungeonlike room with stone walls, a beamed ceiling, a small slit of a window that no human being could possibly fit through and that revealed what seemed to be an impenetrably black night beyond—her situation was bad. Terrifying, in fact.
“Them that’s in charge.”
The slopping rag slid across her neck, then along her shoulders and over her décolletage in quick, practiced strokes that were as impersonal as if she were no more than a china doll. A remnant of damp chill about her person made Beth think that perhaps she had been given a sponge bath all over. A horrified glance down at herself brought the reassuring knowledge that she was still fully clothed. In fact, she was still wearing the lemon-colored morning gown in which she had been abducted. It was sadly crushed now and dirty, and her stockings felt loose about her legs, as if her garters were on the verge of giving up their grip, but nothing indecent met her gaze and she had no sense that any outrage had been committed upon her person while she had been unaware. Indeed, she was still wearing both shoes.
“Here, lift your head.”
Beth complied automatically, to find that the woman had replaced the rag with a brush, which she proceeded to drag through the masses of hair that tumbled about Beth’s face.
“What do you mean, them that’s in charge? In charge of what?” Beth jerked her head away, and when it could retreat no farther she allowed it to drop once again to the flat mattress, there being no pillow. The brush followed inexorably, continuing its work. “What is this place?”
“’Tis not for me to say.”
“Ouch!”
The brush caught on a tangle and was pulled on regardless. The tiny pain was lost in a swift uprising of panic. Glancing furtively around, Beth discovered that, even if she managed to somehow free herself of her bonds and evade her keeper, a heavy-looking wooden door that was closed and almost certainly locked also stood between her and escape. Even if she could somehow manage to get through the door, there was no telling what lay beyond. Whatever it was, she doubted that it was a clear path to f
reedom. Her gaze returned to the woman, whose attention was all on her task. Beth frowned with incomprehension as she realized what that task was: styling her long tangles of hair. The thick sausage curls the woman was coaxing to life by brushing them around her fingers and arranging them, one after the other, across her bosom, seemed to have no possible reason for being brought into existence. Likewise, the sponge bath made no sense.
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