“It was horrible, my lord. I prayed every night that you’d rescue me.”
“I have men searching from Scotland to Plymouth, Elizabeth. Did that blackguard harm you? Rape you? Where is he? I swear I’ll kill him.”
“Kill him,” she echoed weakly.
“I’ve been frantic, dearest. How did you ever get away from John Turpin long enough to sell your necklace?”
“He… drank sometimes. He took opium, too. He even inhaled ether.” Rand had described such drug dens, a common part of London’s underground, and it sounded sufficiently debauched to possess the ring of truth. “He threatened dire consequences if I escaped, but this morning, while he slept, I slipped away and wandered the streets until I happened upon the Strand. I was so frightened, nearly out of my mind. Then I remembered what you said about the toy shop. I didn’t know you had contacted Mr. Harvey. I told him I needed money for my sick mother. That way if John searched the Strand for me…” She stared beseechingly into Walter’s face. “He let me keep the necklace…” Why? she thought frantically. Why would he do that? She remembered Zak’s hanging, the first one, where the hangman had strangled Zak with a silken cord. “John oft twisted the necklace round my throat if I would not do his bidding, until I was nearly dead from strangulation. Then he would laugh.”
Forgive me, my love.
“John was bigger, stronger,” she cried. “I tried to escape countless times, but he always found me. Once he lashed me to my horse. He didn’t beat me, but I was beaten in spirit, unable to shout for help, or even beg assistance from strangers. I feared every man. I think I might have shunned the very men you sent in pursuit, the ones who read your handbills…” She swallowed the rest of her words, aware that she was revealing far too much information.
“There, there, you’re safe now. We’ll go directly home, to my residence. The carriage waits outside. I’ll have a servant retrieve your necklace.”
If he gets me in his coach, I’m doomed! As Walter led her from the shop, she saw a constable’s wagon parked directly behind Walter’s carriage. Armed guards bristled from the wagon’s rooftop, while a half dozen mounted men surrounded it.
“Now that you’re safe, you must tell us where John Turpin is,” Walter said. “I assume he’s near here.”
Elizabeth swayed against him. “I feel faint, my lord.” Collapsing on the shop stoop, she put her head between her knees.
While Walter sent his servant Grosley for vinaigrette, Elizabeth desperately tried to devise some way to give approximately fifteen men the slip.
Kneeling beside her, Walter said, “My brave darling, you’re going to be fine.” He accepted the vinaigrette from Grosley and waved the bottle in front of her nose.
Elizabeth coughed and jerked her head aside. The smell was powerful enough to revive a platoon of swooning elephants.
Walter helped her rise. “Sit in the carriage, dearest. Soon you’ll feel better.”
She shook her head. “I prefer to walk. The cold air might revive me.”
“Grosley and I will walk with you. But first you must tell me what you know about Turpin’s whereabouts. You must remember something, Elizabeth.”
“’Tis difficult. I’ve been so confused. We never went out, except at night. During the day he never left me alone. Oh, I can’t talk about it. The memories are too painful.”
“I understand completely. But you must have some idea. Does he bide near the toy shop? The Thames? St. Paul’s? Use your powers of observation. As a writer, you must have them. Think, Elizabeth. Where did Turpin keep you?”
She pretended to ponder his question while she pondered escape. How the bloody hell could she obtain more favorable odds? First, she would have to get rid of the lawmen.
“I do remember something about our lodgings, my lord. From my window I could see Covent Garden. We were in a tiny side street, near a flash house,” she added, making up details as she went along. “I cannot recall the name of the inn, but it had a bay window in front with two broken panes. That’s all I remember, except for an abandoned baby near the gate.”
Walter conversed with the lawmen, who immediately departed for Covent Garden. Now she would only have to rid herself of Walter and Grosley. With one man on either side, she walked along the footpath. Walter also maintained his arm around her waist, ostensibly for support.
“Would you buy me a pastry from a vendor, my lord? I find that your protection has rejuvenated my appetite.”
Walter snapped his fingers and Grosley scurried toward a vendor.
Her serene expression never faltered, never betrayed the trepidation that grew with every step they took. “Wine,” she said. “There’s an inn. A glass of wine might—”
“I have an even better idea. Why don’t we all eat dinner?”
She managed to choke down a venison pie and a glass of claret, hoping fate would intervene. Rand would be expecting her return, and by now he’d realize something was amiss. Walter’s carriage, parked outside the inn, had the Stafford coat of arms painted on its doors. To further stall, she ordered a roast leg of lamb, peacock steaks, and rice pudding.
“Didn’t that monster ever feed you?” Walter asked.
“Of course he did, but I couldn’t eat. I feared he might—” get caught, she almost said, just before she clamped her mouth shut.
“You feared his attentions. I understand. Turpin twisted the necklace?”
“Yes.”
“Strange. You have no marks on your throat.”
“I did at first. After John broke my spirit, he merely threatened.”
“I can’t imagine anyone breaking your spirit, Elizabeth.”
“I told him I preferred death, but he wouldn’t let me die.”
“He shall die, and that’s a promise. You look so pale, my dear. Does Turpin’s pending death distress you?”
“No. The memory of my ordeal has made me unwell.” Rising, she clutched her belly. “Perhaps another glass of wine might settle my stomach.”
“Help yourself.”
Walter glared at her while she drank, and she realized that her stall game was at an end. Completely subdued, she allowed him to guide her to his carriage and heard him tell Grosley that he was dismissed. Once they were seated, Walter said, “I want to get you home. I am indescribably eager to witness your reunion with your mother.”
“Stepmother,” she replied. Then his words pierced the fog inside her head. “Dorothea’s here? In London?”
“Of course. Concerned with your safety, where else would she be? Rest your head upon my shoulder, dearest.”
“Thank you, but I’m feeling much better.” Actually, she felt much worse. Walter had said home, most likely his residence on George Street. It might as well be India. Once they left this part of London, she would be totally lost.
What was he doing now?
He had retrieved a bottle of red wine from the carriage floor, uncorked its top, and extended it toward her. He wanted her drunk so that she might inadvertently reveal more information. Pompous ass! She had consumed many a bottle with Rand and he had admired her clearheadedness. Defiantly, she took several swigs from the bottle.
She heard Walter urge her to drink more. After she had complied, he said, “Something has bothered me from the beginning, Elizabeth. Perhaps you can help me with my uncertainty.”
In the dimness of the carriage, she couldn’t interpret his expression, but the affected tone had disappeared from his voice. She knew what that meant. Walter Stafford, lawman, had emerged. Warily, she waited for him to continue.
“One thing in particular doesn’t make sense. Why would Turpin kidnap you? Am I not correct when I say that you barely knew each other?”
“Yes, you are correct.”
“So you knew each other slightly, but not intimately.”
“Yes. No. You are deliberately confusing me and I
really do feel unwell.”
“You’ve dribbled wine down your chin.” He whipped out a handkerchief and wiped her face. Dropping the handkerchief, he snaked his arm around her back and rested his hand just below her breast. “Why did Turpin steal you away, Elizabeth?”
Walter put something in the wine. She felt her head lurch downward until her chin rested upon her chest. He had this planned all along.
With his free hand, Stafford snatched the bottle and tossed it out the window. “You’ve had enough, my dear, more than enough. I don’t believe I’ve ever told you how much a drunken woman disgusts me, though it is sometimes necessary.”
“Nes-necessary?”
“In order to insure compliance.”
“Are you threat… threatening me?”
“Why should I threaten you when you’re already at my mercy?” Cupping her chin, he forced her head upright and stared into her eyes. “Answer me, Elizabeth. Why did Turpin kidnap you?”
“Revenge,” she slurred. “John often said he would make you pay for his partner’s death. What better way than to pirate your fiancée and despoil her?”
“Of course. How simple. Simple and diabolical. Yes, that sounds plausible. And yet I sense something more. Why didn’t he let you go once he had raped you?”
“He… enjoyed me.”
“Yes. Who wouldn’t? Tell me, Elizabeth, was John Turpin the man who robbed you on your return from London?”
Although her head whirled, she weighed her response carefully. Walter was trying to trap her, had already trapped her, but she couldn’t comprehend the reasoning behind his questions. She only knew that she had consistently underestimated him.
“It might have been John,” she replied. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded as if it came from inside a deep, dark hole. “I cannot say for certain who robbed me. The highwayman hid his face with a viz… vizard. Please, my lord, I fear I am truly ill… and so… so tired.”
“A few more questions and you may sleep, dearest. Why did you scream when you saw Zak Turnbull? Open your eyes and pay attention, Elizabeth. Midsummer’s Eve. Remember? My guess is that you thought Turnbull was the other highwayman.”
“Did not,” she mumbled, her mouth filled with pebbles, her stomach lurching.
“Then why did you scream?”
Despite Walter’s fingers clamping her face, Elizabeth slumped forward. She felt him release her chin and tug at her hair, until her throat was so taut she couldn’t swallow. Her limbs felt like logs. She didn’t have the strength to push him away. Rand, she pleaded silently. Rand, help me.
The coach’s interior swam before her eyes, and she felt herself slipping further and further down into the abyss. When the carriage wheels encountered a nasty bump, she merely flopped like a rag doll, even though Walter was forced to loosen his grip so that he might balance himself on the seat.
Just before the relief of total oblivion fell upon her, just before she plummeted toward the carriage floor, she heard him say, “Shit! This time I’ve overplayed my hand.”
Twenty-three
With an effort Elizabeth opened her eyes and tried to focus, or at least clear the cobwebs from her brain. Her hands dangled from the arms of a chair, her legs were at an awkward angle, and her feet rested upon an embroidered foot stool. The tall-case clock read three, or was it fifteen minutes past twelve? No, the noon hour had progressed long ago, so it must be three.
“Poor darling.” Dorothea materialized, seemingly out of nowhere, and wrapped Elizabeth in a perfumed embrace. “You’re safe now. You must rest until you get your strength back. No. Don’t say one word. Lord Stafford has told me everything.” Dorothea nodded toward Walter, who stood by the window.
Everything? Elizabeth grimaced. Not bloody likely!
Dorothea minced over to the fireplace, her short steps prim, affected, and Elizabeth was struck by her stepmother’s grandeur. Dorothea was beautifully made up, her coiffure flattering, her gown’s décolletage daring. From a distance she looked youthful. In a voice as cold as the diamonds around her throat, she said, “Did you get him, m’lord?”
“My men are searching Covent Garden. If I don’t receive a favorable report soon, I’ll join the search.” He strode across the room until he reached Elizabeth’s chair. “Your daughter has recounted a most harrowing tale, Dorothea, including rape and near-strangulation. Yet she managed to escape, which, in my opinion, was very courageous.”
Elizabeth bit down hard on her bottom lip to prevent an acrimonious reply. She mustn’t defy him. Not yet. Not until she had fully recovered from the drugged wine.
Trying to control her shaking limbs, she glanced around the small but elegant drawing room. While Stafford’s furniture was of an excellent quality, only a few pieces graced the interior. She also noted an abundance of windows, as well as French doors opening onto a terrace.
A plush prison. But it hadn’t been made for a prison, no matter how closely they guarded her. She felt her spirits lighten. She would escape, just like all her heroines. Well, all save Lady Wilhemina. Terror in the Abbey was one of B.B. Wyndham’s most popular works, even though it did not have the usual happy ending. After being ravaged by a lust-filled monk, Lady Wilhemina had died in his arms, thus driving him insane and exacting revenge from the grave.
“Once the highwayman is captured, he’ll hang,” Dorothea said smugly. “And I will watch from the front row.”
Again, Elizabeth swallowed an angry retort. Instead, she glared at her stepmother. Dorothea made a regal sight, framed by the carved wooden mantel and a large painting of Westminster Bridge.
No prison hulks disturb that vista, Elizabeth thought, marveling at how the painting’s rendering of a brilliant London sky precisely matched the blue of Dorothea’s gown. Had she planned it, she couldn’t have achieved a more flattering pose. No wonder she enjoyed wealth. It became her.
“I’ll make certain your room is readied, dearest,” Stafford said. He sounded so honey-tongued, a swarm of bees might very well have flown directly toward him. No denying that he was a first-rate actor.
Following his retreat, Dorothea’s manner changed. “You fool,” she spat. “You almost ruined everything.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“All this.” Her gesture encompassed the room. “You treat Lord Stafford like an idiot. If he chooses to believe your story, ’tis because it makes the game more interesting, not because he thinks it true. Don’t push him too far, Elizabeth, lest his mask slip.”
“His mask has already slipped.”
“What does that mean?”
She shrugged.
“Lord Stafford will find your lover if he has to pursue him from here to China. Lord Stafford is relentless. Don’t gamble on your highwayman, Elizabeth. He’s already a dead man.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was kidnapped. I didn’t go willingly.”
“Save that prattle for the others, you wagtail. Now that we have the right bait, we shall hook your blackguard soon enough. I had a terrible time convincing Lord Stafford of your innocence.” Dorothea approached Elizabeth’s chair. “But men can be such dolts when they’re consumed by love.”
“Lust.”
“Whatever.”
“I’m very tired, Dorothea. I’d like to go to my room now.”
“Patience!” she shouted.
“No, now,” Elizabeth said, as a squat, muscular woman with iron-gray hair surfaced from beyond the parlor. She wore a belly cheat over her somber gray gown. One of Walter’s housemaids?
“You’ve been given your instructions, Patience,” Dorothea said, nodding sharply toward Elizabeth. “Take my daughter to her room.”
Blunt fingers dug painfully into Elizabeth’s upper arms as Patience raised her from the chair and guided her, none too gently, toward the door. Elizabeth stumbled and would h
ave fallen if not for the maid’s relentless grip.
Should Rand try to rescue me, he’ll have more to fear from the brutish Patience than the law, Elizabeth thought, her throat tightening.
“Lord Stafford is not so magnanimous as he pretends.” Dorothea minced across the carpet while Patience halted Elizabeth’s advance. “I haven’t figured out which matters to him more. His regard for justice or his love for you.”
“Hogwash! Lord Stafford doesn’t possess enough character to care about justice. He’s interested in criminals for the monetary compensation. And to use love in connection with me is absurd. Lord Stafford is merely a prideful man determined to have his own way. If you think otherwise, you’re deluding yourself.”
“You might ponder this, Elizabeth. One word from me to the proper authorities and you shall hang along with your lover. I’ll tell them that you were a willing accomplice, that you conspired to rob Lord Stafford and me. I dislike warring with you, but I’ll do what I have to do.” She stroked her diamond necklace. “I enjoy the life Lord Stafford has shown me. I love London, and I have no intention of returning to the Dales as an innkeeper’s wife.”
“Ponder this, Dorothea. If I hang, you’ll have no hold over Walter. Without me, he won’t spend a shilling on you.”
“I hope it will not come to that. I trust you’ll realize the error of your ways and settle down. Respectable women do not rut with highwaymen, nor do they write books. You’ve never wanted to be what you should be, and therein lies your folly.”
Dorothea nodded to Patience, who ushered Elizabeth out. Ascending a winding staircase, they were joined by two male servants. Upon reaching Elizabeth’s room, the two servants took their places on either side of the entrance.
Once inside, Patience locked the door, dropped the key between her copious breasts, then plopped down onto an upholstered armchair. “We can make this as easy or as toilsome as ye choose,” she said. “I’m gettin’ well paid t’ make certain ye don’t bugger off. I know all the tricks, so ye might as well save us both grief.”
Elizabeth ignored her. Crossing to the window, she gazed out through its polished glass. Unfortunately, there was no roof jutting below. The shade trees, well-trimmed and at a distance, mocked her. The two-story drop was perilous, virtually impossible, even if the window had not been locked. Fog had crept over Westminster. Elizabeth could barely glimpse the other residences with their vertical lines, elegant doorways, fanlights, and porches. Despite the sameness of the exteriors, Great George Street was a coveted address. At Beresford’s drum, she had heard it mentioned in reference to a duke and three political figures.
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