by Jane Ashford
“I demand you send me home at once,” continued Julia, fighting headache and nausea.
“I should much prefer to do so, but it is impossible.”
“Why?”
“Sir Richard Beckwith is, I understand, a superb shot. I have no wish to test his skill.”
Julia’s fear intensified. Though she tried not to think about it, memories of Bess when she had first arrived at the house kept surfacing. This man was terrible, she knew. “I won’t tell anyone,” she offered.
“Beckwith is also quite intelligent. I’m sure he has worked it out for himself by this time. Yet as long as you are missing, he has no proof. I must think.” He shut the door again. Julia heard him speak to his companion, then the sound of retreating footsteps. She strained her ears, but heard nothing more. Moving awkwardly because of her bound arms, she checked both doors. There were no handles inside; she could not get out. She sank back on the seat and tried to penetrate the haze of pain and anesthesia to think what to do.
After perhaps half an hour, footsteps returned and the door opened yet again. This time, two unknown men took Julia from the vehicle and marched her across a dark courtyard to a good-sized house. She was escorted up two flights of stairs and left in a maid’s room at the top of the building, where the windows under the eaves were far too small to allow escape. The room contained a shabby iron bedstead and poorer washstand. A scrap of dun carpet sat in the center of a dusty wood floor.
The men pushed her down on the bed and turned to go. “Won’t you untie my hands?” exclaimed Julia.
They looked at each other. One shrugged, and the other returned to cut the ropes about her wrists. Julia pulled her hands in front of her and rubbed them as the men went out. She heard the key turn in the lock before their footsteps retreated along the hallway outside.
* * *
Sir Richard stood before a window of the Devere house staring blindly out at the idyllic country afternoon. The servants were still out searching for Julia, but he had satisfied himself by this time that they would not find her. Fenton had her, he was sure, and he was struggling with a desire to smash something or someone. Lord Fenton was, naturally, the preferred target, but in his present mood, almost anyone would do, and he fought to subdue his rage so that he could take some useful action instead.
The door opened and Michael Shea, Bess, and Thomas came in. Sir Richard turned at once, his gray eyes intent.
“I can find no sign,” said Shea immediately. “I searched all night, and when people began to stir I inquired along all the roads leading from here. No one noticed a carriage or group of riders. It’s as if she disappeared into thin air.”
Beckwith clenched his fists and turned his back on them. The others exchanged worried glances.
“I’ll keep trying,” added Shea.
“And alert the world that she is gone,” snapped Sir Richard, his voice throbbing with suppressed rage.
“I’m discreet,” protested the other. “I tell them I’m searching for my brother.”
“How did he find her, that’s what I want to know. We were so careful not to come near.” He jammed one fist into the other hand. The fact that he had not seen Julia in several days made things even worse.
Michael Shea and Thomas Beckwith looked at each other over Bess’s head, then quickly looked away.
“There must be something more we can do,” said Bess. “Someone must have seen a carriage, or heard it at least. We must keep trying.”
“Of course,” replied Sir Richard. “But this is not a populous neighborhood. He may have slipped away without attracting attention.” His hands clenched again. “I shall get it out of Fenton, however.” His mouth was a hard line.
“The scandal,” said Thomas involuntarily.
His brother turned on him. “Do you think I care for that? When that devil has Julia!”
“No, no, of course not,” muttered Thomas, wishing he hadn’t spoken.
“Will you fight him?” asked Bess unhappily. Her burden of guilt seemed to grow heavier and heavier.
“I will use whatever means necessary to make him tell me where she is,” was the answer. He picked up his hat from the sofa. “Thomas and Shea, remain here and continue to search. Something may yet come up.”
“You’re going back to London?” asked Thomas.
“Yes.”
“Shouldn’t I come with you?” Thomas felt that nothing disastrous could happen if he could keep his brother under his eye.
“I should prefer you to remain.”
Thomas conceded to his implacable tone.
“You will, of course, send a message if you discover anything,” added Sir Richard as he turned to go. “I will summon you if I need you.”
When he was gone, the three looked at one another.
“We won’t find anything,” said Michael Shea. “I’ve spoken to all the people hereabouts.”
“Julia might get away and come back,” offered Bess.
The men greeted this hope with silence.
“This is all my fault!” she burst out then. “I should have left as soon as I was able. But I never thought—”
“No one did,” interrupted Shea. “Don’t be blaming yourself, Bess. It’s Fenton who’s to blame.”
“But if I hadn’t been here…”
“It doesn’t help to think of that,” said Thomas, meeting Michael Shea’s eyes steadily. “We have to do something. Bess, perhaps you could see if anyone is in the kitchen now and order us some luncheon.”
“How can you think of eating?” she protested.
“Please.”
Bess sighed and went out. The two men looked at one another a moment longer.
“He must have seen me talking to you,” said Shea then.
Thomas nodded. “He was having me watched as well as Richard. I suppose you were marked and followed.”
“I saw no one. And I would have sworn that none knew me in London. Or at least none knew me as more than a face seen in a gaming club.”
“Apparently, you were wrong.”
They were silent again.
“I didn’t have the courage to tell him,” said Shea then. “The look in his eyes… I sheered off.”
“Well, so did I,” replied Thomas irritably. “And he’s my brother. But we must make amends.”
“How?”
“I don’t know!”
“There’s no need to rasp at me, I’m with you. I just don’t see what to do.”
The latch clicked, and Bess returned. “They’re taking cold meat and fruit to the dining room,” she informed them, “though how you can even think of food I don’t understand. We must make a plan.”
The two men looked at her.
“Have you no ideas?”
“We don’t know where to begin searching,” replied Shea. “He could have taken her anywhere in England.”
Bess’s face fell, then brightened. “Sir Richard will force him to tell,” she said.
“And ruin himself,” added Thomas heavily.
“What do you mean?”
“If he calls Fenton out, or even just confronts him in his house, the story will leak out. Such things always do. Fenton might well spread it himself. He’s done it before. And then Julia will be ruined. If it becomes known that Fenton kidnapped her…” He grimaced.
“Good riddance to anyone who thinks so,” said Bess fiercely.
“You may feel that, but Julia does not. Nor does Richard. They’re accustomed to respect and admiration.”
Bess bit her lower lip, staring at the floor.
“We’ll think of something,” put in Michael Shea heartily.
“I should make amends,” answered Bess. “It is my fault she is gone.”
“We needn’t have brought you here,” Thomas pointed out.
“Indeed,” added Shea. “Don�
��t you be getting any daft ideas, Bess Malone. You stay out of this. We’ll get her back. Never fear.”
Bess gazed up at him as if to protest. But seeing the fierce protectiveness of his expression, she did not speak.
Seventeen
Julia was left alone long enough to explore her prison thoroughly and discover that possibilities for escape were limited to the door. Unfortunately, its lock seemed quite sturdy, and after fruitlessly trying to probe it with a hairpin, she returned to the bed and sat down to wait. As her headache and sickness faded, the fact that she had had no dinner or breakfast intruded insistently, but she ignored the pangs and bent her mind instead to her current dilemma.
This was frightening. As long as she had concentrated on details, she had been steady enough. But when she sat still and tried to think, she was terrified. She was at the mercy of the man who had so dreadfully mistreated Bess Malone, and none of her friends knew where she was. Julia began to shudder. She wrapped her arms around herself and breathed deeply, trying to control her fear, but it was of little use. She was trapped and unlikely to see her home or the man she loved again.
It was at this moment that footsteps approached along the corridor. Julia sprang to her feet and faced the door, pushing her nails painfully into her palms in an effort to control her trembling.
The door opened, and Lord Fenton stood there once more. He had changed his coat, Julia saw, for a garment more suited to the country. This brought outrage to her rescue and lessened her fear. She stood straighter. “Do you intend to starve me?” she asked before he could speak.
Fenton raised his eyebrows. He was not accustomed to such tones in these circumstances, nor to women who faced him with haughty contempt. Tears or violence he had dealt with; this was new, and thus intriguing. “No,” he answered. “You will be brought food.” He stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him, and some of Julia’s confidence evaporated. “First, there are things we must discuss.”
Involuntarily, she moved back until the iron bedstead stood between them. She did not want to let him see her fear, but she could not bear to be near him.
“Our situation need not be awkward,” he added in what he must have imagined were persuasive tones. “It is not what I planned, but it could be quite pleasant.” Fenton gazed caressingly at the girl. Downstairs, as he had adjusted to the fact that a mistake had been made, Julia’s loveliness had lingered in his mind and begun to work on him. Though he would not have kidnapped a girl of birth and breeding purposely, having her here under his sway excited him, and the limits society had set on his desires began to erode.
He smiled, and Julia shuddered. His ravaged, dissolute face was the antithesis of everything she admired, as was his character of all she respected.
“I offer you a great deal,” he went on. “I am a man of wide…experience. I could show you pleasures you have not imagined.” The tip of his tongue showed between his lips for a moment.
Recalling Bess, Julia felt sick. Her repugnance was so strong she couldn’t even speak.
“We might even marry,” Fenton said. “I require an heir sooner or later, and I have a certain position in the world.”
“An infamous position!” snapped Julia, finding her voice at last.
“Perhaps I could redeem it with you.” His smile was mocking.
“I would die before I would marry you!”
“Really? Women say such things, but they seldom mean them. Surely you would not let it go so far?”
Julia’s blood froze. She had not quite faced it before, but if he could not allow her to go home, what was he to do with her? “You’re mad,” she gasped.
“On the contrary, I think it is a very clever solution.”
“It would not be tolerated. My parents—”
“Would be grateful to see you safely married after this little…adventure.” He gestured at the room around them. “It would be a nine days’ wonder, of course. The ton would buzz with rumors. But we would put it about that you had changed your mind, as females are wont to do. I’m sure we could concoct a charming love story, and in a few months we should be just another feature of society. You would quite rehabilitate my reputation; some of my aunts would rejoice in the match.”
“Richard,” murmured Julia, knowing with a sinking heart that he was right about the world’s reaction, even her parents’. They would see no other way to save a situation so far out of their conventional experience.
“Yes,” Fenton agreed, “Beckwith is the problem. I fear you will have to speak to him yourself. But I shall be with you, of course.”
“No!” cried Julia, her voice throbbing with anguish.
“I had certainly not intended to marry just now,” replied Fenton, as if she had simply put some practical objection. “But I can see advantages.” He looked her up and down in a way that made Julia draw back further. He moved toward her. “I shall enjoy seeing Beckwith’s face. Yes, this is a far sweeter vengeance. But you will enjoy certain things as well, I promise you.” He was suddenly beside her, and before Julia could slip past the bed, he had grabbed her wrists and forced them behind her back. He held them together in an iron grip as he pulled her against him, molding her body to his. Julia twisted this way and that, but she could not break his hold. She had trapped herself in the corner between the wall and the bed, and now he braced her there as he bent to fasten his lips upon hers.
This, at least, Julia could avoid, she twisted her head from side to side evading him. But Fenton merely let his lips slide down her neck to her throat and shoulder, kissing her again and again and pressing ever closer against her. The hard contours of his body were inexorable, and Julia’s terror mounted as she continued to struggle wildly and without effect.
At last, his passion rising, Fenton loosed one of his hands, taking both of her wrists in the other. He reached inside the front of her gown caressingly, tearing it as the seams resisted his explorations. With a supreme effort, Julia got one hand free. Crooking her fingers into claws, she raked them with all her strength along the side of his face, catching the corner of one eye and leaving bloody trails behind.
With a cry, Fenton flung her away and clutched at his face. Julia struck the bedstead glancingly, then fell to the floor. In an instant, she was up and scrambling toward the door.
But Fenton was faster. He caught her arm as she was opening it and again threw her across the room. When he turned to stand over her, he was a dreadful sight, with blood dripping from the parallel gashes in his cheek. Julia crouched, awaiting a blow. But instead, horribly, Lord Fenton slowly smiled. “A spitfire, eh?” he said, pulling out his handkerchief and pressing it to his wounds. “Splendid. From what I’d seen of you, I hadn’t expected it.” He reached behind him with his free hand and turned the doorknob. “I shall get this attended to and return better prepared,” he finished, stepping back and out and locking the door behind him. Julia let her head sink on her knee and drew a shuddering breath that disintegrated into a sob.
* * *
Sir Richard stood before Lord Fenton’s house and waited for someone to answer his knock. He felt a mixture of tension and anticipation. The next few minutes would certainly be difficult, but if they offered him a chance to face his enemy, they would be deeply satisfying as well.
A footman opened the door. “Lord Fenton,” said Beckwith.
“I’m sorry, sir, his lordship is out of town.”
Though this confirmed Sir Richard’s fears, he did not show it in his face. Instead, he moved forward, forcing the young footman to retreat before him into the front hall. “It is a matter of the utmost urgency,” he told the servant. “Can you give me his direction? I must communicate with him as soon as possible.”
“Wait here,” was the nervous reply, and the footman disappeared through a door at the back of the hall.
Sir Richard waited, but his hopes were fading. He had counted on sur
prising Fenton’s location out of a lower servant. Their superiors would be far more likely to ask his business and fob him off with excuses.
After an interval so long that Sir Richard was about to go in search of someone, the young footman returned accompanied by, or rather supporting, a much larger, older man dressed as a butler. A reek of whiskey wafted ahead of them.
But when the pair came close, the butler straightened and attempted to stand alone, swaying as if in a stiff breeze. “Yes, sir,” he said. “You was wanting?”
“I want Lord Fenton’s direction,” replied Sir Richard.
“Ah. That we do not have. No, sir. When his lordship goes off into the country—not visiting, you understand, but on his own hook—we are not given any direction.” He hiccupped loudly and flushed a little.
“Damn it, someone must know where he is!”
The butler shook his head slowly from side to side. “We’re not to know, y’understand.”
Though infuriated, Sir Richard did understand. Lord Fenton did not want his servants gossiping about where he went and what he did there. He hired ruffians from the streets so that no rumors would reach the haut ton. Society might be fairly sure that his pursuits were unsavory, but they had no concrete evidence. If Fenton’s hirelings gossiped, they did so in circles unfrequented by his friends and acquaintances.
But this left Sir Richard helpless, and Julia gone. He could not let it drop. “Perhaps if I inquire further,” he said, and pushing past the two men, he went through the door into the back premises.
There, the opulence of the hall ended abruptly. Beckwith ran lightly down a narrow stair and found himself in the kitchen confronting an aged and very ugly cook and a maid whose swelling apron attested to an interesting condition seldom seen among servants. “Where is Lord Fenton?” demanded Sir Richard, hoping to intimidate them.
The maid gasped and held a carrot she had been peeling to her bosom. But the cook was made of sterner stuff. “Out of town,” was her reply. “And what may you be doing down here? Is that Adams drunk again, then?”
Turning on his heel, Beckwith returned to the upper floor, nearly colliding with the butler and footman as he emerged. Then, deciding that he had already caused such a sensation that a bit more wouldn’t hurt, he strode quickly through the house, upstairs and down. Fenton was not there. He hadn’t really expected he would be. He was, a growing conviction assured Sir Richard, somewhere in the countryside with Julia as his prisoner. He longed to tear the man’s house apart and throw his servants into the street. But the shadow of scandal dogged him even as he searched. He had gone as far as he could. Even now, whispers would start. They would probably concern Bess, but he could not take the risk of creating such an incident that more would be suspected. Even a whisper of the truth would come back on Julia.
