He took in the sights of the flowers and trees as he strolled along the paths of the garden. Chester thought about his conversation with Missy and the events of the past year. He knew he had to make a decision concerning Orley once and for all. To tell or not to tell. That was the question.
“Fantastic. I am quoting Shakespeare.” Chester laughed.
“Talking to yourself, Your Grace?” a deep voice said behind him, sending shivers up his spine.
Chester turned and found himself face-to-face with the Tamerican from Southerby. He gasped and took a step back.
“Y-you….”
The man grinned evilly. “Yes, Your Grace. It’s me. Do you know ’ow long I have waited to catch you alone? It seems the duke is unable to let you out of his sight for long, although I certainly understand that. I wouldn’t let you out of bed iffen you belonged to me. And well—” He raised a hand and trailed his fingers down Chester’s arm. Chester shivered. “—I told you one day that you would.” Chester opened his mouth to scream.
“Uh-uh-uh,” the Tamerican tsked, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t do that.” He pulled out a revolver and held it against Samson’s head. “Not unless you want me to shoot this little mulatto babe and take you anyway.”
Chester trembled and swallowed, nodding. “O-okay. I won’t scream.”
“Good. Now come on with me, Your Grace. I’ve got my carriage waiting just down the alley there. We’re gonna get inside and go to my townhouse, and then I’m gonna take you back to Tamerica with me where you’re gonna spend the rest of your life as a slave. Just like you were meant to be.”
Chester let out a soft cry of pain as the Tamerican gripped his arm in a harsh grasp and stumbled across the field. He walked ahead of the man out through the side gate, down the mews, and into his carriage. They were not spotted by anyone, and tears poured down Chester’s cheeks the entire way. He cursed the estate’s seclusion for the first time since their move and called out silently for Orley to hear him. When he did not hear the hooves of his husband’s horses, Chester realized that it might just be up to him to rescue himself and his son.
It was time for him to actually put action to words and save himself.
Orley sat in an armchair watching as Yarborough took his shot on the billiards table, his mind on the information they had received that day in regards to the Tamerican. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was a bit like the man had simply vanished into thin air. Which in and of itself meant more than if everyone had seen the man.
“Stop your brooding, Whitcomb, and take aim,” Yarborough said. “We shall find the cur and take our revenge.”
Orley sighed. “So you say. I would sleep better if I knew he had been dispatched. I am finding it harder to reassure Her Grace that he is safe, knowing this vagabond is loose upon the streets able to cause injury upon his person.”
“I assure you we will find him before this rapscallion has the chance to even lay eyes upon the duchess again.”
“By your leave,” Orley said, inclining his head. He lined up his mace stick with the ball and propelled it across the table. He watched the three balls spin across the flat surface with satisfaction and turned to face his friend as one sank into the side pocket. He picked up his glass of Tscotch and took a sip. He looked out over the club, his eyes taking in the sight of the men sitting at the various tables. Some of them were reading The Times, some were discussing the races, some were also playing billiards, and others were either drinking tea, coffee, or spirits.
Arlington Remmington walked over to Orley, a smile on his face. Orley liked the man, though he noticed that the same persistent sadness that always seemed to lurk in Stephen’s eyes was apparent in Arlington’s as well. Orley wondered at that. He had questioned Stephen about it, and had been told by his old friend that it was just a case of “lovesickness.” It was baffling to consider that Arlington was suffering the same malady. Was it something in the air, perhaps?
“Remmington, old chap! How fares the life of a businessman?” Orley asked, clasping Arlington’s hand in a shake.
“Your Grace.” Arlington bowed. “I must admit my coffers are quite full. The gentlemen of the ton are quite generous with their patronage, and I am humbled they see fit to darken the door of the Remmington with their presence.”
“Well, Remmington, what do you expect? Your service is excellent, your drinks are of the highest caliber, and your furnishings are fine. Not to mention you make sure everything is above par, from membership to entertainment. It will not be long before the Remmington will be an
institution to be remembered right up there with Jackson’s.”
Arlington blushed, and Orley patted the man’s shoulder.
“You honor me, Your Grace.”
“He speaks the truth, Remmington,” Yarborough stated, walking over to sit on the edge of the billiards table.
Arlington inclined head. “Regardless, consider me eternally grateful to hear such words pass through your lips, Your Grace and Lord Yarborough.”
Orley waved his hand. “Think nothing of it. Now, was there something you wanted? You were striding toward me with something of purpose.”
Arlington’s eyebrows lowered and he frowned for a moment, and then his brow cleared. He snapped his fingers and withdrew a paper from his inner pocket. “Ah yes. There was a footman who came inside the club with a message for Lord Yarborough. He said he worked in the home of Lord Oakley and heard you were looking for a Tamerican who rented a room in Southerby for a time. He believes he has information for you.”
Orley stood as quickly as possible as Yarborough took the letter from Arlington and read over the missive. When the color drained from Yarborough’s face, Orley snatched the paper from his friend’s hand to read the words for himself. What he read sent ice pumping through his veins.
My Lord Yarborough,
I believe I know the colonist ye have been lookin fer. His Lord Oakley has himself a Tamerican guest by the
name of Mr. Hagan. Knew him from the time they were boys. I heard Mr. Hagan tell Lord Oakley of a beautiful Tafrican slave posin as a servant he met in Southerby and the cripple lord who seemed besotted with her. I’m thinkin he might be who yer lookin fer, my lord. Best to arrive with the constable, my lord. Else Mr. Hagan may escape.
Jeremy
Orley crumpled the parchment in his hand and narrowed his eyes in Yarborough’s direction. He had begun to consider Lord Oakley a friend. Well, maybe not a friend—it took Orley quite a while to trust someone enough to place such value in a person. But he had at least begun to think about it.
“We must away to Lord Oakley’s townhouse at once,” he directed.
“Agreed.” Yarborough nodded.
Without another word, they inclined their heads to Arlington and strode out of the Remmington.
Orley climbed into his awaiting carriage, giving the order to head to Lord Oakley’s townhouse, and sat back against the cushion. His fingers began tapping against his thigh as he struggled not to jump to conclusions.
“We must not assume Lord Oakley had anything to do with your shooting,” Yarborough stated.
“Yes, I know,” Orley said.
“Do you really?” Yarborough asked.
Orley cut his eyes in Yarborough’s direction. “What does that mean?”
“You have a tendency to be suspicious of those around you, Whitcomb. Especially since Badajoz. It has only gotten worse as time’s gone on. You must not confront him as if he were guilty of some offense.
Be calm when we enter.”
“I am always calm!”
Yarborough quirked an eyebrow, and Orley growled. The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the Oakley townhouse, and it was all Orley could do to grab hold of his cane and climb gingerly out of the curricle. He strode up to the front doors and knocked heavily upon them, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for the butler to answer them.
“Breathe, Whitcomb,” Yarborough cautioned him.
Orley closed his eye
s and took a deep breath just as the door opened.
“The Duke of Whitcomb and Lord Yarborough to see Lord Oakley,” Yarborough said, pleasantly, handing the man their calling cards.
“Right away, Your Grace, my lord. Please, come in.” The butler ushered them inside.
Orley lifted his eyelids and stepped within the entryway, following the butler into the drawing room. He walked over to the mantle and leaned against it, drumming his fingers impatiently as he waited for Lord Oakley to appear.
“My lord will be with you shortly,” the butler said with a formal bow before retreating.
“Thank you, my good man.” Yarborough said, giving a nod.
Orley rubbed a hand over his sternum, his mind turning toward Chester and Samson as a sense of unease swamped through him. He grew anxious, his stomach clenching in knots and nausea rising in his throat. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.
“We must away,” he told Yarborough.
“But we have only just arrived.”
Orley shook his head. “I cannot explain it,” Orley stated. “But I feel as though something has happened to Her Grace. I need to get home.”
Yarborough walked over and placed his hand on Orley’s shoulder. “You worry for nothing, Whitcomb. It is merely because of the circumstances surrounding our meeting with Lord Oakley. We will meet with him, and then we will rush to your lady’s side, and you will see all is well.”
Orley swallowed the lump that had risen to his throat and nodded.
“Aye. You are probably correct.”
“I know that I am.”
The door to the drawing room opened, and Lord Oakley walked in then. Dressed in a dark blue suit jacket, pale yellow vest, black trousers, white button shirt, with his white cravat perfectly pressed and lying artfully formed beneath his throat, Lord Oakley presented himself as the epitome of an Anglish gentleman. Even if he was a Tamerican. He bowed to them and Yarborough bowed in return, while Orley merely inclined his head regally.
He gestured for them to have a seat and smiled. Orley pasted a false smile on his face, his eyes missing nothing as he watched the handsome man. Lord Oakley was an amenable fellow. Standing at almost Orley’s height, broad-shouldered, with cerulean-blue eyes and dark brown hair that hung to his shoulders and which he refused to pull back into a queue but instead always let hang freely, Lord Oakley had married into the nobility. Orley had never had an issue with the Tamerican, had, in fact, found him to be quite a delightful chap. But, if there was the slightest chance the man had anything to do with trying to kill Orley or putting his husband and child in danger, Orley would run him through.
“So gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Lord Oakley asked.
Orley said nothing, merely nodded at the maid who served them tea and waited until she had exited the room and the door closed behind her before turning to look at their host. He opened his mouth to respond, but Yarborough beat him to it.
“We have come to ask you about a guest of yours, Lord Oakley. A
Tamerican visitor.”
“A visitor of mine, my lord?” “Yes, a Mr. Hagan,” Orley said.
Lord Oakley looked up in surprise, and he rose from his chair. He walked quickly to the drawing room door, opened it, and spoke to the footman waiting just outside.
“Please have Mr. Hagan join us,” he stated firmly.
“As you wish, my lord,” the footman bowed and walked away.
Lord Oakley turned back to the room, shaking his head. “Forgive me for reacting so suddenly, but you are the third visitors I have received in as many days who have come in search of Mr. Hagan. I must admit I find myself quite befuddled.”
Orley turned to look at Yarborough in confusion, the feeling of unease increasing in his gut. Someone had known they would come to Lord Oakley’s townhouse to look for Mr. Hagan—how were they certain it was not the very person they were seeking? Orley sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, suddenly aware that whoever was about to walk in the door was definitely not the person they were seeking.
The brown-haired Tamerican who stepped in the door was slender of build, with a moustache and beard, and bright green eyes. His face still appeared youthful, and though he wore the clothes of an Anglish noble, they looked too big on his thin frame and made him appear as if he were playing dress-up. Orley was shaking his head and rising before he even opened his mouth to speak.
“Lord Oakley? You asked to see me?” Mr. Hagan said.
“I apologize, Mr. Hagan. There seems to have been a misunderstanding. We received a missive from Lord Oakley’s footman, Jeremy, that you were the man we sought in a matter of great import. Unfortunately, he seems to have been mistaken….”
“Jeremy?” Lord Oakley asked, rising as well. “I have no such footman.”
Yarborough rose slowly. “Are you quite sure, Oakley?”
Lord Oakley nodded. “I know the names of my footmen, Yarborough. I know it is not a common practice among the Anglish, but we colonists tend to make sure we know the names of all those who serve us.”
Orley rolled his eyes. “Can we focus, gentlemen? The lives of my husband and son are in danger. This is not the time for you to be sitting around determining which nation is better, Angland or Tamerica. Besides, we know Angland would win. Now then, you say you have no footman named Jeremy. Then, who is he? He knew about Mr. Hagan and
used your seal to affix the missive he sent to me today.”
Mr. Hagan gasped, and Orley turned to look at him, pointing.
“What do you know?”
He shook his head. “I came over with some pals from the Colonies. They are not staying here. They have rented a townhouse in Grosvenor Square, but one of them, Patrick Lonigan, asked to use Oakley’s office to write his father a letter earlier this morning.”
Yarborough shook his head. “And why would you think it was him?”
Mr. Hagan stared at him. “Because I admonished him for what happened in Southerby, though I wasn’t there to stop him. He’s here on holiday with me until everyone in Richmond forgets about what he did to that young slave girl, and his father’s name is Jeremy. He’s the only one
who would want to see me hanged for something I didn’t do.” “Why?” Orley asked.
“Because I’m the one who turned him in to his father, the sheriff.”
Chester sat on the bed in the small home the Tamerican had rented and watched as the man walked back and forth, muttering to himself over and over. Chester held Samson closer to his chest growing more concerned as the Tamerican continued to look out the window.
When there came a knock on the door, Chester stiffened. Who could that be?
The door opened, and Birtie stepped inside, the groom’s gaze moving over Chester, a smirk coming over her face before she turned to look at the Tamerican.
“Did His Grace see you take him?” she asked.
“Of course he didn’t!” the Tamerican said, sounding affronted.
Birtie raised her hands. “Calm yourself. I am merely making sure. It would not serve us well to have His Grace show up before we have a chance to make our escape, would it?”
“Nay, it would not. The damn idiot probably doesn’t even know it was me who shot him, much less that I took his beloved husband. And Hagan will hang for it all. Just what that turncoat deserves.”
Chester trembled when both men turned to look at him speculatively, their eyes moving over him as if he were a prime piece of horseflesh. He pulled Samson closer to him, shushing the babe when he began to whimper. Fear coursed through him as a cold wind, whipping at his heart and tearing at his soul. Chester wanted to cry out at them but knew it would be futile to do so. Instead he bit down on his lower lip and stared at his captors, mutinously.
“What shall we do with the child?” Birtie asked.
The Tamerican tapped his chin. “We would not meet with much coin were we to show up in Tamerica with the Grace saddled with child. We shall have to be rid of it.”
Chester’s eyes widened and he gasped. “No! Absolutely not. You can not take my child from me! I will have your head if you try.”
He should have expected the blow to the side of his cheek. The fire and pain that radiated throughout his face made him cry out, igniting an echoing wail in Samson.
“Cease your fotmy pleas for leniency, woman! I shall hear none of them,” Birtie yelled.
Chester raised a hand to his injured jaw and glared at the former groom. He cursed him and the Tamerican mentally, planning their demise as they began to discuss their next steps. Looking down at Samson, Chester promised his son that he would see them to safety. He would do whatever he had to do to make sure Birtie and the Tamerican were both punished for their parts in their kidnapping.
“Mr. Hagan, I will go and meet up with the rest of the revolutionaries. Do not let Her Grace out of your sight, for one moment,” Birtie said, and without another word, she left.
Chester watched the former groom leave and then returned his gaze to Mr. Hagan—he had to make sure he remembered that name.
The Tamerican grinned at him lasciviously and licked his lips, his hands moving to the waistband of his trousers.
“I do believe I have a most pleasurable way of being sure I keep my eyes on you at all times, Your Grace. But first, let us remove your son from your arms. I am sure you do not want him to see such things.”
Chester tried to move away from the man but as Mr. Hagan stepped closer, he knew he was trapped and had nowhere to go. He wanted to scream and never stop screaming, but he wouldn’t scare Samson; he had to be strong for his son. Whatever happened, Chester had to be strong for him.
Orley’s blood boiled as he read another letter delivered to him, this time from a footman named David at Coventry Estates. It was only three words, but they were enough to make him see red: I have them. Orley had known what they meant and had wanted to rush off to find his husband and son. The snarling, growling beast inside of him, the one that was fiercely possessive and protective of those he loved, demanded blood. Retribution. Orley wanted Patrick Lonigan’s head on a spike. It was only Quincy, Savoy, and Yarborough reminding him that he did not know where the man was that held him back to listen to the plan they were formulating.
The Servant Duchess of Whitcomb Page 28
