by Mary Nichols
‘Enough,’ the bald man said.
‘Is that why you are doing this, simply for money, or is there more to it than that? Count Cariotti has no love for the English. He is a cold-blooded killer and he’s very good at shifting the blame; he has done it before. Why do you think he went off and left you here? So that if there is trouble, he will be miles away doing something else. Do you want to hang for him?’
‘No one’s going to hang.’ He looked the more nervous of the two.
‘Stop yer chawin’,’ the dark one said. ‘We ain’t supposed to talk to ’er.’
‘I was only trying to find out what made you collude in kidnapping,’ Sophie said. ‘I have powerful friends—’
‘Where are they, then?’ he cackled.
She fell silent. Did she have any friends at all, let alone powerful ones? Did anyone care what had become of her. She was a hoyden, had flouted convention, had boasted about a book that was nothing but a travelogue, and had made enemies. But friends? Lady Myers had gone to India with her husband. Harriet might be fond of her, but she would never defy her brother. As for the young people whose acquaintance she had made since coming to London, people like Ariadne and Dorothy, they could not possibly understand or care about the coil she was in. And James Dersingham, what of him? Had he received the letter she had been forced to write? Had he done anything about it?
James was sitting opposite Harriet in the small dining room, toying with the food on his plate. A day had passed, a whole day and nothing had happened: no demand from Cariotti who, according to Harriet, had been seen at the opera the evening before; no word from Richard that he had discovered anything from the prisoner; no news from Baldock that could throw any light on Sophie’s disappearance. He was in despair. His hair was wild because he had raked his fingers through it so many times, his eyes were glazed with fatigue, his face pale as parchment. If he did not hear something soon, he would go mad.
‘I begin to think Cariotti does not have her,’ he said. ‘We would have heard long before now if he had.’
Collins came in, bearing a dish containing a heavy plum pudding. James groaned. More food was the last thing he wanted. ‘Your Grace, Sadler is back.’
‘Back? Then send him in here. At once.’
‘Your Grace, he is dusty from travel.’
‘Send him in, I said. Do I have to give all my orders twice?’
‘James!’ Harriet remonstrated quietly, as the man scuttled away.
‘Sorry. This waiting and doing nothing is like waiting for a battle to commence. The troops are ready, the guns are primed, swords are sharpened, and still we wait for the order to advance…’
Sadler, begrimed with travel, took a step into the elegant drawing room and stood, his hat under his arm, reluctant to venture further. ‘Your Grace.’
‘What have you to report, man?’
‘The two you asked me to question knew nothing, your Grace, though I promised they would not be punished for telling me. They said Miss Langford dismissed them in Piccadilly, told them she could find her own way from there. They didn’t see her speak to anyone.’
‘Damn!’ James swore, forgetting the presence of his sister.
‘I stayed at Dersingham Park as you instructed, your Grace,’ the servant went on. ‘The housekeeper gave me this letter. Said it had only just arrived and she was going to post it on.’ He took a step forward to meet James, who had come to his feet and was striding towards him.
‘Thank you, Sadler, you may go,’ he said, ripping open the seal. He scanned the missive quickly. ‘This is it,’ he said, feeling relief surge through him, followed almost immediately by anxiety. ‘She’s being held to ransom…’
‘Then pay it. How much are they asking?’
‘Her manuscript and five thousand guineas. I have to take it to the Stanhope Gate at seven…’ He glanced up at the clock on the mantel. ‘It’s nearly that now. There isn’t time to warn Captain Summers. He was going to follow me… Collins,’ he shouted, and when the footman returned, ‘Tell Sadler to come back. I have an errand for him.’
The order for battle had been given. He was full of purpose and energy, though how he was going to outwit his enemies he did not know. He had been counting on Richard’s help. He sent the exhausted Sadler out to find Captain Summers after dragging him away from his dinner in the kitchen, and then went upstairs to change into a plain suit of Bath cloth, fling a black cloak about his shoulders and put a small pistol in his belt, resisting the urge to hurry. Whoever had been instructed to meet him would wait a while; they would not give up before they were certain he was not coming and the longer he kept them waiting the more time he would give Richard to arrive. He picked up his hat and returned downstairs.
Harriet was waiting in the hall. She followed him into the library, where he unlocked the safe and took out a bag of coins. ‘Count out two thousand,’ he said, ‘while I make up a parcel.’ He grabbed several old newspapers and folded them to the same size as Sophie’s manuscript and wrapped it neatly in plain paper, trying it with tape.
‘Aren’t you going to take the manuscript? she asked.
‘No. Sophie put too much work into that for me to hand it over.’
‘But surely, if they realise there is nothing to fear in what she has written, no secrets, I mean, they will let her go and give it back? If you try and gull them, they will be sure to think there is something to hide…’
‘Possibly,’ he said laconically. ‘But they might destroy it out of anger and I cannot let that happen.’
‘I hope you know what you are doing.’
‘So do I.’ He dropped a kiss on her forehead, picked up the parcel and the bag of money she had counted out, crammed his hat on to his head and made for the door. ‘If Richard comes, tell him what has happened.’
It was only a few hundred yards to the Stanhope Gate. He walked slowly. In spite of the feeling of urgency, the need to be at Sophie’s side as quickly as possible, he was calm. He went over everything in his head, his instructions, written in Sophie’s hand, though he could tell that she was trembling by the uneven writing and the strange wobble at the end of her signature; the arrangements he had made with Richard; the possibility that it was a trap and that neither he nor Sophie were meant to come out of it alive. That last thought was enough to quicken his step, but he deliberately slowed down again.
‘The Duke of Belfont?’
He turned to face the speaker. He was of middle height, thin as a rake and bald as an egg. He had an ugly scar on his face that James recognised as a battle scar. An old soldier, then. And poorly dressed.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have the goods?’
‘I do, but if you think I—’
‘No, sir, no. I am sent to fetch you, nothing more.’ He was obviously nervous, not only about what he was about to do, but because as a soldier he had learned to respect and obey those who were put in command of him and he recognised an officer when he saw one, even if he was in civilian clothing.
‘Then lead on.’ He scanned the jostling crowds, looking for Richard or any of his men, but there was no sign of them, but then there would not be; they were meant to be invisible.
The man led him to a carriage, with a man already on the box, waiting to move off. If he got into that and it carried him away, how was Richard to know his direction? He hesitated. ‘Sir,’ the scarred man said. ‘I must ask you to get in the vehicle.’
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Why, to the young lady, sir.’
There was nothing for it. He had to go. There was already a man in the coach, a wiry little man with grey hair and an equally grey complexion, who ran his hands over James as he seated himself beside him. Finding the small pistol, he took it from him and sat holding it, grinning to himself. The bald man sat opposite.
They journeyed in silence for some time, until they left the capital behind and were on the open road. ‘How far do we travel?’ James asked.
‘Not far.’
‘A soldier, are you?’
‘I were.’
‘What do you do now? When you are not kidnapping young ladies, I mean.’
‘Didn’t do no kidnapping. The mort were already with—’ He stopped suddenly.
‘The Italian Count?’
‘Ain’t sayin’.’
‘Why d’you do it?’
‘Got a wife and six childer and no work, that’s why.’
‘You know it’s treason? There’s a particularly brutal punishment for that. What would your wife and children do then?’
‘Treason? It ain’t treason, sir. It’s an affair of the ’eart, so he told me.’
‘He lied. He’s a spy for Napoleon, the man you spent years fighting. Do you want to see the tyrant come again?’
The man made a noise that was half-laugh, half-grunt. ‘It’d put me back in work, wouldn’ it?’
‘I think you will be back in uniform before you know it, my friend, but in the meantime, I can give you work.’
‘An’ if you think you can bribe me to turn my coat, think again, sir. It won’t serve.’
‘Why not?’
‘’Cos he’s took me wife, ag’in me not obeying orders…’
‘Then we are in the same boat, my friend. He has my woman…’
‘Can’t ’elp you, sir.’ He was uncomfortable and nervous and James knew he had rattled him.
‘How much are you being paid?’
He laughed. ‘’Tis in that bag you got in yer pocket.’
The other man scowled and muttered something in French.
‘Who’s your friend? James inclined his head towards the man sitting next to him.
‘Ain’t my friend. Never saw ’im afore today. He’s the Eyetalian’s valet, so I ha’bin told. He don’ speak no English.’
James forced a smile. ‘Then he’s been set to watch you, watching me.’
‘No doubt of it.’
James fell silent. There was nothing he could do, nothing he wanted to do, until they reached their destination. In the close confines of the coach he did not think that it would be wise to attempt to overcome them, not with the valet playing with that pistol. Finding Sophie was his first priority, then he could think about freeing them both from the Italian’s clutches, though how it was to be done, he had, as yet, no idea.
It was dark now but it was not difficult to detect where they were; the stench of the river was strong in his nostrils. The coach turned down an alley and stopped at some river steps. It was then he realised they were going to continue their journey by boat. Like Sophie before him, he wondered if he was being taken out to an anchored ship. If that were the case, it was going to be doubly difficult for him to effect a rescue and bring her safely back to dry land. But there was nothing for it but to go along with them. The coach driver remained behind while the other two did the rowing.
After they had been making their way steadily downstream on the ebbing tide for some time, he recognised the bend in the river. He was in Limehouse Reach with the Isle of Dogs on his left; but though there was some moored ships waiting their turn to go into one of docks, the rowers did not seem to be making for them. Instead they turned up one of the dozens of small creeks that criss-crossed the Isle, and a few minutes later pulled in to a dilapidated landing stage. James’s senses were alert as they left the rowing boat and squelched across marshy land towards an isolated hut, surrounded by a few overgrown bushes that half-concealed it.
He had fought in a war, endured gunfire and explosions, crept about behind enemy lines, pretending to be one of them, knowing if he were discovered he could expect no mercy, and his feelings were the same then as now. Fear gripped his belly, while his mind remained sharply aware of everything around him. The land was flat, much of it below the high-water mark, kept from flooding by embankments. There were a few stunted bushes dotted here and there, but for the most part it was pasture where cattle grazed. Some way off he could see buildings, which he supposed to be dockside warehouses. Once away from the hut, there was little or no cover for anyone escaping on foot, unless they were prepared to submerge themselves in the dykes.
He turned his attention to the building. It was crudely made, but stout enough, probably a hiding place for smugglers or criminals fleeing the country, somewhere where they could wait for a suitable ship. Was that what Cariotti intended? Was the man there, with Sophie, only feet from him? His heart began to race.
The bald man walked ahead of him, the older valet behind, carrying James’s pistol, which he prodded into his back now and again to keep him moving. It was now or never. He whipped round and seized the man’s wrist, twisted the pistol out of his grasp and felled him with one of Gentleman Jackson’s favourite punches to the side of the head, though on this occasion he had the advantage of the pistol in his hand to lend weight to the blow. It was done so speedily, the man did nothing but grunt and crumple to the ground. The man ahead, hearing him go down, turned to find himself looking down the barrel of the pistol.
‘It’s either a bullet somewhere where it will hurt, but not kill,’ he said, ‘or you can take this and conveniently disappear.’ He tapped his pocket. ‘Which is it to be?’
‘How much longer are you going to keep me here?’ Sophie asked. ‘I am tired and thirsty.’
Cariotti smiled. ‘Do you think he will not come? Do you think your entreaties have fallen on deaf ears?’
‘What would you do if they had?’ They were alone, had been for several hours, waiting for his two accomplices to bring the Duke. Sophie had been in fear of her virtue, if not her life, when the Count had returned and sent the other two on their errand, but apart from tying her to one of the chairs he had not touched her. She had been trying to engage him in conversation, if only to mask the fact that her mind was on ways of escape and she was busily trying to rub her bonds against the back of the chair, though it was having little effect.
‘I would have no choice but to kill you.’
‘As you killed my father when he would not cooperate. Everyone thought he had died in a drunken brawl, but he didn’t, did he? He was a patriot and in spite of your threats would not turn spy. I am proud of him.’
The door was suddenly flung open and James stepped into the room, carrying the package. He took in the scene at a glance. The table and Sophie sitting beside it with her hands tied; Cariotti, who had been lounging on the bed, scrambling to his feet, the fire and the pan in the hearth. The fact that there was only one door and only a foot-square opening that served as a window and a lookout on to the river.
‘James!’ she breathed, relief flooding through her. He had come! But how was he going to get them away? In the hours she had been incarcerated, before Cariotti had come and tied her up, she had peeped through the window and seen the desolate landscape. Anyone running across that could be seen against the skyline for miles, even if they did manage to avoid the dykes.
‘Glad to see you,’ Cariotti said, smiling his oily smile. ‘Please be seated next to your paramour while I peruse what you have brought.’
‘I am afraid it is not as simple as that,’ James said, going swiftly to Sophie. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Oh, I am so glad to see you.’
‘And I, you, sweetheart.’ The endearment brought tears to her eyes. She never thought to hear it from the Duke’s lips.
‘Enough of that,’ Cariotti interrupted. ‘Where’s the book? And the money?’
‘First things first. Release Miss Langford.’
‘Do you take me for a gull? Flowers, Simpson, get yourselves in here…’
‘I am afraid they will not be coming. Other things to do, don’t you know.’ He spoke languidly, but he was watching the Italian so closely he could see the twitch in his cheek and the gleam of malice in his eyes. Angrily the man rushed to try and wrest the manuscript from James, which he had been holding in front of his pistol to conceal it. The parcel fell to the floor and Cariotti found himself facing a gun. He backed away.
; ‘Now release Miss Langford.’
Cariotti did as he was told, taking his time. ‘What have you done with my men?’
‘Oh, I have not put an end to their miserable existence, though it might be better for you if I had. I am keeping them hale and hearty to give evidence against you.’
Sophie, who had been marvelling at the coolness of the Duke, suddenly found herself pulled to her feet and held in front of Cariotti. She struggled ineffectually as he hauled her to the door, keeping her between him and the menacing gun. James cursed aloud. Cariotti had his back to the door, slowly inching his way out to freedom, when there was a shout from outside. To Sophie that meant the other conspirators were returning. A shot sounded so close and so loud, she screamed with terror, thinking James had risked a shot and had hit her.
James bounded across the room in time to catch her as she fell out of the unconscious Cariotti’s arms. Richard appeared in the doorway, grinning. James, kneeling on the floor cradling Sophie in his arms, looked up. ‘You damned fool! You could have killed her.’
‘And is that all the thanks I get for riding ventre à terre to the rescue? You were at an impasse, my friend.’
‘I had the situation under control.’
Sophie stirred to find herself lying in James’s arms; he was looking down at her with an expression of such tenderness her heart turned over. She smiled weakly. ‘You came.’
‘Of course. Did you think for one moment that I would not?’
She thought about this for a moment. ‘I wasn’t sure…’
‘Then be sure of this.’ He pulled her close against his chest, tipping her head up to his with his finger. ‘I am never, ever, going to let you out of my sight again, if I live to be a hundred.’ He lowered his head and kissed her lips and the wild stirrings she had felt when he kissed her before came back a thousand-fold until she was breathless. ‘I love you, Miss Langford, and I will not rest until you become the Duchess of Belfont.’
She did not hear or see what was going on around her, that Captain Summers was issuing orders to half a dozen uniformed men, that the Count had recovered consciousness and was being hustled, along with the valet, into a large rowing boat, crewed by more uniformed men. She knew only that James loved her.
