“I wouldn’t put money on him, if I were you.”
“Still thinking of betting on Nemesis?” Ernest asked.
“I am.” Abernathy’s eye twitched.
“What are the odds running on him?”
“Middling.”
Ernest ordered a bottle of claret and decided to test the man’s knowledge of the other bettors. “Do you happen to have any knowledge of bettors who are under the hatches, looking to make a killing in this race?”
“No one in particular. But it’s a rather common practice to bet heavily when you’re in debt,” the former captain said, managing to convey a bit of scorn along with another eye twitch. Ernest hadn’t had any idea the man was such a good prevaricator.
“And you don’t think Billy Boxer the man that Simpson was?”
“He thinks he is, apparently. But Simpson was in a class of his own. He always worked on his attachment to the horses he rode. That was part of his particular magic. He’ll be missed by Strangeways and his brother, I’ll wager.”
Ernest discussed the other entries in the race, nursing his claret as he shared a generous portion with Abernathy. Was the man a killer? It was extremely odd having drinks with a man who might be trying to end the life of the lady he desired. Ernest decided he himself must possess acting skills of which he had no knowledge.
Soon it was time for tea. He needed to inform Penelope she would have another guest for dinner, but first he had an errand to perform.
*
As Ernest entered Hatchards book emporium, he hoped he wasn’t being too presumptuous. But if a man could give flowers, why could he not give a book?
He was led to a very small travel section by a tiny man with pince-nez and a squint.
“Because of the war, no one has written travel journals on Italy for many years. But we have a few that are actually quite remarkable,” he said, showing him a single shelf with its calf-covered, gold-stamped volumes. “Sir Russell Effington’s is particularly enlightening.”
“Is it suitable for a lady?” he asked.
“Oh my, yes. It is beautifully written, with no questionable references to anything a lady might not read.”
Ernest pulled it off the shelf, and as the clerk walked away, he read the preface:
Contained herein are my memoires of my life in Florence during the years 1780–1790 when I was fortunate enough to live among those wonderful Italians. It contains not only a memoir of the splendid sights to be found in Italy but a memory of the very air, which in Florence particularly, crackles with energy and creativity. Just walking down any of the streets of old Florence is an exercise in creative stimulation. There dwelt some of the greatest geniuses to ever have been born into this world, and their spirits live on in its people and its art. I only hope my humble quill can convey my experience with any sort of adequacy.
Sir Russell Effington, Baronet
1793
Yes! This was just the sort of thing to appeal to Marianne. Excellent!
While he was at it, he decided that he would purchase a copy for himself.
Chapter Seventeen
Marianne wished heartily that she could skip dinner tonight. Beau and the captain had both invited guests who were headed to the races at Newmarket. They had both asked if she would run an eye over them to the end of discovering whether any might possibly possess the build of her attacker.
Tired of being treated as a victim, she was again seriously considering returning home to the country. Perhaps she would after the King’s Plate.
An inconvenient voice within questioned whether or not she would miss Captain Saunders.
Of course she would! Truth be told, that was probably at the root of her desire to leave. Flee before you are burned! His bronzed face and brilliant blue eyes were imprinted on her mind, even when he was not there.
But they were not at all suited for each other. The attraction they felt for each other was not sufficient to overcome their differences. She came from the world of great houses, land, gardens, and horseback riding. He came from the world of enormous ships with their powerful sails, the open sea, and foreign ports where she assumed he had known many a woman.
She believed in fidelity, in mating for life. He believed in sating his physical appetites.
How could such differences be overcome? Sadly, it seemed to her they could not. Calling Foster, she asked for her to see that her and Gweet’s portmanteaux would be packed. She would travel back to Buckinghamshire by post chaise following the races.
*
Dinner passed by in a blur. She interacted with the guests by rote, using conventional, polite conversation. Marianne recognized none of the men for certain, although she noted that Captain Abernathy was of a slight, wiry build. Most of the other male guests were of portly stature.
Why was Captain Saunders even thinking this mattered? Surely her assailant was only a hired man. A man of property, a gentleman, would never undertake such a task himself on another gentleman’s estate, at four o’clock in the morning! Still less would he have risked the chance of recognition by posing as a coachman the night she was kidnapped.
In her opinion, no one would ever be caught, still less punished for the deeds that had almost taken her life. She was dispirited and unaccountably sad by the time the guests took their leave.
When their immediate party was left in the drawing room, Marianne voiced her thoughts about the unlikelihood of discovering her attacker and then said, “The only one of any of those men who had a remote resemblance to the man in the stable was Captain Abernathy.”
“That’s what I thought you would say,” commented Captain Saunders. “I say, don’t look so down in the mouth about it, my dear. I feel confident we shall learn something at the races.”
“I am not at all certain of that. In any case, I am determined that Gweet and I shall remove to our home in Bucks afterward. We shall be safe enough there. I have imposed on your hospitality overlong, Penelope. Before you protest, let me just tell you that I am determined to go. I feel that it will be best.”
She did not look the captain’s way as she said this. Closing her fan and gathering her skirts, she prepared to leave the drawing room.
To her surprise, Penelope did not demur. Instead, she said, “I am sorry this has been such a harrowing visit for you. I do not blame you for seeking the solace of the country. That is where I am happiest, as well. But you shall be missed. By all of us.”
Glad that her friend understood, she took her leave and went upstairs to her bedroom. She was satisfied to see two portmanteaux sitting at the foot of the bed, packed and ready. Gweet was also sleeping on her pillow, having most likely tried to wait up for her mother and lodge a protest about their departure. Wordsworth slept before the fire.
Waking the girl gently, she said, “Gweet, darling, you must go to bed. We start our journey to Newmarket tomorrow.”
Prying her eyes open, her daughter said, “Why must we go? We shall miss the masquerade and Arabella’s ball!”
Marianne had forgotten all about the captain’s masquerade ball and Arabella’s come out ball as well.
“Perhaps we shall return for them. They are still a month away, dearest.”
“I shall die if I cannot go! I have been counting on it.”
“If you are very well behaved during the next month, we shall see about coming up to London for it. But I cannot promise anything. Now off to bed with you. We arise early tomorrow.”
“But if I’m not to stay in London with Miss Braithwaite, where am I to stay during the races? You say I cannot attend.”
“You will be happy enough at the Strangeways’s home. Mammy and Angelique shall be there, as well as Sammy.”
Gweet heaved a heavy sigh. “All right. I guess I have not any choice.”
“You are right! Off to bed!”
Foster waited to undress her. This accomplished, she sat at the dressing table so that her maid could brush out her hair and plait it for bed. There she saw a parcel, wrap
ped in brown paper. Underneath the strings that bound it was a sealed note.
Intrigued, she took out the note and broke the seal.
My dear Lady Deveridge,
I happened to be in Hatchards today, where I encountered this volume. The preface spoke to me in a way that I knew would appeal to you and your vivid imagination. I could not resist making you a gift of it.
Yours in truth,
Saunders
Curiosity made her fingers swift as she opened the parcel.
A Memoir of Florence.
Almost hungrily, she turned to the preface and read. Enchanted immediately, Marianne looked back at the letter again.
Captain Saunders found this for me? Is there a side to him that I have missed? Why would he do something so lovely for me?
She went to bed very confused by it all and found she could not sleep. Instead of thinking of the race that would take place in a couple of days, or how happy she would be to go home to Buckinghamshire, all she could focus on was the warm, soft feeling that cloaked her, much as though she were held in the captain’s arms.
*
Another note in the captain’s hand was brought up with her tea in the morning, accompanied by a single red rose.
My dear lady,
I am so sorry that you have elected to return to the country after the races. I understand why you would want to do so, but I shall miss your company. Perhaps you will allow me to call on you there?
I am riding on ahead to Newmarket with Strangeways, so I look forward to seeing you there.
Yours in truth,
Saunders
Disappointed that the captain would not be awaiting downstairs for her to thank him for the thoughtful gift, she nevertheless was softened by the note. The idea of his coming to Poplars, her home, stunned her a bit. She would have to deal with that later. She had no idea if she could risk seeing him there in her very personal surroundings. Was not much of the reason she was leaving because she knew they would never suit? Because she was becoming fond of him?
She ate breakfast in a blur of uncertainty, and soon they were all ensconced in the carriage, except Beau, who rode in the protective position of outrider.
Because of Gweet’s presence, Marianne could not confide in Penelope as they rode, so they passed their time playing cards and entertaining Sammy. They reached Harlow, their intermediate stop, late in the afternoon.
The Green Goose Inn was crowded with wayfarers on their way to Newmarket. Nevertheless, Marianne was happy to be there. The weather had turned stormy, and the winds had buffeted the carriage quite badly, jostling her still-tender head.
She asked for dinner to be brought to her on a tray and adjourned to the room she shared with Gweet on the second floor. The sheets had been aired, and the bed was comfortable. She fell asleep even before her dinner arrived. Her daughter tried to get her to partake of it, but she only waved it away. Her head was demanding sleep.
Marianne did not even hear the door when the intruder entered. She awoke to a black sack being pulled over her head. Before she was fully awake, the stranger slung her over his shoulder and took her down a set of stairs she determined was the back passage on the way to the privy.
Rousing herself to kick his chest and pound on his back, she knew her screams were muffled in the noisy inn by the black sack. The villain carried her through the rain to what she discovered to be an open cart, where she was thrown into the back.
After a long drive, during which her head whirled and pounded in earnest, the man pulled her out of the cart, tossed her back over his shoulder, and walking a short distance, threw her into what seemed to be a shed full of feed sacks. As she kicked, he subdued her with a blow to the head.
When she came to consciousness, she was shivering in a dark place, her hands and feet bound, the sack still over her face. Her head hurt so badly she was nauseous.
At least she was still alive.
Where the deuce am I? How will anyone find me?
She tried to roll over so she might contrive some way of standing, but she was well and truly caught between giant sacks that smelled like dusty feed. Marianne realized she was on somebody’s farm.
The race is the day after tomorrow. If anyone does find me, I will never get there in time to see whatever it is this villain does not want me to see. And what about poor Gweet? Is the man going to come back to kill me? Why am I even still alive? He has already killed once.
Will Captain Saunders or Beau rescue me? No. Not the captain, at least. He is already in Newmarket, most likely. How long before anyone discovers that I have been kidnapped? Surely Gweet will tell them. But they cannot search at night. I am a long way from the inn.
Her thoughts began to go in circles. At first, she was optimistic that she would be found, but by the time morning dawned through the cracks between the lumber slats of the dirty shed, she had grown certain that she would not be.
Chapter Eighteen
Ernest and Tony arrived at Strangeways’s Newmarket home midday, gratified to find the full company of servants had arrived from the neighboring village. The house was aired and full of flowers, with fires lit in the bedrooms and the sitting rooms. Changing out of their traveling clothes, they met in the downstairs sitting room for a whiskey.
“Is it my imagination, Ernest, or have you fallen under the spell of the beautiful Lady Deveridge?”
Ernest sighed heavily. Perhaps Tony could advise him. “It is not your imagination, I am afraid. I am devilish smitten. However, that is between us. I know Beau would not approve. He deems himself a standin for Bertie and is convinced her brother wouldn’t like it. Sea captain and all that.”
His friend poured another whiskey. “Are your feelings returned?”
Ernest shook his head ruefully. “I am afraid not. Sometimes I think she is growing fond of me, but at others there is only an icy blast. Her main objection to me is that I am a sea captain. She wants her next husband to be a devoted homebody.”
Tony’s eyebrows rose. “Then you are thinking of marriage? Bad luck.”
Was he thinking of marriage? He supposed he must be. Ernest was surprised to realize that nothing else would do. The idea was a jolt. “She is determined to take herself off to her son’s estate in Bucks after the races. Brought her portmanteaux and everything.”
“I thought you could charm anyone, old fellow.”
“She is not interested in my charms.”
“You look abysmally blue deviled. You must have fallen hard—I know the feeling. I certainly did not expect Virginia to give up her country for me. I thought our association was doomed from the start.”
“How did you change her mind, may I ask?”
“I realized she was more important to me than my estate, even my country. I offered to live with her wherever she pleased. We eventually compromised. We were to live here until the war between our countries ended. Then we were to visit America and evaluate our situation.” Tony swilled his drink in its tumbler, looking into its depths. “We went there, intending to stay a full year as an experiment. She envisioned buying a new plantation and running it with paid labor.”
Ernest couldn’t imagine making Tony’s sort of sacrifice. “Did she?”
“No. It seemed as though everyone in the whole state of Virginia had turned against her for freeing her slaves. No one would sell to her. It was rather heart-wrenching, actually.”
“So you came back to England.”
“I never could have imagined it when we were married, but she considers this her home now.”
Ernest considered the tale. “I can’t imagine giving up my profession.”
“Sometimes love forces compromise. In Beau’s marriage, his wife was the one who made the compromise. She had to agree to live in London and interact with the ton for periods during the year when Beau’s business at the Foreign Office demands it. On the other hand, they live at Somerset Vale for longer periods than Beau has in the past.”
Ernest sighed again. “There is no w
ay I can take Lady Deveridge on board with me, even if she consented, so I am afraid there is no compromise on offer.” He put down his drink. “How about a few hands of piquet?”
*
They had expected the coach carrying the rest of their party to arrive before dinner but ended by dining alone, to the displeasure of Tony’s cook, who had prepared a feast. While they were finishing off a nice Stilton, a message arrived.
“That’s torn it,” remarked Tony as he broke the seal. “Must have had trouble with the coach.”
Once he read the missive, however, he cursed and, rising from the table, tossed it across to Ernest. “Your lady has been kidnapped. Right out of the inn! They haven’t a clue where she has been taken.”
Ernest’s heart nearly misgave him. “Marianne? When?”
“Last night, apparently. Read Beau’s note. They sent it at noon.”
Strangeways,
We are madly in search of Lady Deveridge, who has, we can only suppose, been taken from her bed at the Green Goose. We are in the midst of a search but have not been able to find her. Our villain obviously does not want her watching this race.
Request that you return and help with the search.
W.
Ernest’s body went cold. What the devil was this? His heart began pounding too fast in his sudden anxiety. Was Marianne even alive?
Hands shaking, he walked out of the dining room, his dinner rebelling now in his stomach. He must get to his horse and ride like the devil back to Harlow.
*
Ernest and Tony arrived in Harlow at two a.m., all but spent. They stabled their horses and were forced to share a servant’s room under the eaves at the Green Goose.
The captain could not sleep. Today was the race. What was their villain afraid of?
Recognition, obviously, but had he been so sure Marianne could locate him in that large crowd? Was Virginia’s Prize going to win after all? Or the new horse, Nemesis? Or perhaps Vulcan. Was the man destined to be the big winner at the betting booths their villain? Abernathy perhaps? Or was it an owner who would take the large purse that was the prize at the King’s Plate. Webbingford?
Love Unexpected_A Regency Romance Page 12
