The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her gaze on Hillary’s face, Sylvia felt cold dread run icy fingers down her spine.

  What in all the heavens is he planning?

  * * *

  “I can see a roof on the right,” Ned reported in a hushed whisper. “’Bout a hundred yards on.”

  Kit slowed his horses to a walk and looked. An old, lichen-covered roof loomed beyond a stand of trees; it appeared to cover one large building, with an add-on to the rear. Several tall stone chimneys pierced the roof, also toward the rear of the building.

  “Presumably that’s the brass mill,” Smiggs murmured.

  Kit nodded. Has Hillary stopped there or has he gone on?

  Kit was debating his options when the bushes lining the lane ahead rustled, then a figure burst through, yanking his jacket free and stumbling into the lane.

  “Jack!” Kit managed to keep his voice muted.

  Jack caught his balance, swung around, and saw them, and the relief that washed over the boy’s face told its own story.

  Then Jack started running toward the curricle, waving at them to stop.

  Kit drew on the reins and halted the bays.

  Jack raced to the curricle’s side and, as Kit stepped to the ground, looked at him imploringly. “That blackguard who’s calling himself Hillary took Miss B into that old building there.” Jack pointed at the brass mill. “He tied her hands and gagged and hobbled her, and I couldn’t rescue her in time.”

  Smiggs, Ned, and Ollie had leapt down; they gathered around.

  Kit dropped a hand on Jack’s shoulder and gripped reassuringly. “You’ve rescued her now.” He glanced toward the mill, then looked at Jack. “Where should we leave the curricle?”

  Jack scratched his ear. “Best leave it here, I’d say—otherwise, he’ll hear, and God alone knows what he’ll do.”

  The curricle would block the lane, but that couldn’t be helped, and it seemed a rarely used route, at least on a Sunday. Kit nodded and handed the reins to Smiggs.

  While Smiggs secured the horses, Kit focused on Jack. “Right, then. Tell us what happened from the moment Hillary reached here.”

  That didn’t take long.

  All but jigging with impatience, Jack tugged Kit’s sleeve. “We’ve got to go and save Miss B. Best go through the trees, just in case he looks out.”

  Accepting that Jack had superior knowledge of the terrain, Kit urged him to lead the way. The boy wriggled through the bushes; Kit followed, with the other two boys on his heels and Smiggs bringing up the rear.

  Jack paused at the edge of the cleared space that stretched along the front of the mill. When Kit halted beside him, Jack pointed to a gig, the horse standing with head hanging, then to the closed door of the mill, toward the other end of the building from where they stood.

  Kit nodded. Judging by the brightly painted sign above the door, the neatly trimmed clearing, and the thin stream of smoke that curled lazily upward from the chimneys, the mill was a going concern. He considered the closed door for several seconds, but given the size of the building, depending on where Hillary and Sylvia were inside it, a frontal assault would almost certainly give Hillary time to seize Sylvia and use her as a hostage.

  Kit glanced at the others and signaled that they should circle toward the rear of the mill. He took the lead, pleased that the others remained silent as they crept in his wake. Impatience had dug its spurs deep, but the overriding need to ensure Sylvia’s safety gave him the strength to resist all unwise compulsions.

  He was banking on there being more than one reason the mill was built so close to the river’s edge.

  Sure enough, in the rear section that had been enclosed as an add-on to the main building, he found not just the two waterwheels that must at one time have powered the now almost-certainly steam-driven mill but also a hatch for loading barges to be sent downriver.

  The hatch was cut in the side wall of the rear section; it was low and wide and secured with a simple hooked latch on the inside.

  Kit crouched by the hatch and tipped his head. He could hear the rumble of a male voice from inside. He signaled to the others, and they obediently froze as he drew out his penknife. After opening the knife, he inserted the blade through the gap at the edge of the hatch and carefully eased the hook up, then slowly let it down...

  The hatch eased open a crack.

  And the voice inside reached him clearly.

  Along with the others, who edged nearer, Kit paused to listen.

  * * *

  Sylvia had managed to make a few questioning noises around the gag, and that was all it had taken to prompt Hillary into loquaciousness.

  He’d rambled for several minutes about how long it had taken him to find his way after being so badly done by—how he’d been forced to take himself to Bristol and tout his brilliance as a preacher on the docks. His lip had curled contemptuously. “Parading up and down with boards exhorting sinners to pray and pay for their repentance!”

  Yet according to him, despite his brilliance, he’d been reduced to a hand-to-mouth existence, one entirely inappropriate for a man of his stamp.

  At least she now knew it was he who’d been watching her.

  While he ranted on, Sylvia surreptitiously tested the ropes anchoring her hands. There was only a little—insufficient—give. However, Hillary had wound the ropes over her gloves. If she could manage to slide her hands free of the leather...

  With an expansive gesture, Hillary concluded, “Indeed, my dear Sylvia, I cannot tell you how very pleased I am to have finally found the perfect revenge.”

  He smiled at her in an unctuous way that reminded her forcibly of his recent occupation; his eyes seemed to shine with what, in other circumstances, might be taken for evangelical zeal. There was also something strange about his familiarity toward her; he seemed to know her, while she couldn’t place him.

  She still had no idea what he was talking about—why he’d kidnapped her for his revenge—but she had a bad feeling about the way he’d tied her, almost in a position of a sitting crucifixion.

  Her only chance lay in keeping him talking and praying the boy found someone to help. “Why revenge on me?” She tried to enunciate clearly through the gag and adopted a mystified expression to boot.

  Hillary studied her for a second, putting sounds together with her look, then he understood, and that smile she’d rather not see wreathed his face again. “Ah, no, my dear Sylvia—this isn’t about revenge against you. No, no—you, it must be said, are merely an innocent pawn to be sacrificed in a deeper game.” His smile took on an ecstatic aura. “It’s your father, the good Reverend Buckleberry, whom I intend to strike and hurt—to flay with a flail that will cut deeply into body and soul.”

  Horrified, Sylvia stared at Hillary while her mind raced, assembling the critical thrust of his plot—his revenge. He was correct in thinking that if she was killed—sacrificed in some brutal fashion—less than a mile from her father’s door, and he learned it was because of him...

  She still couldn’t make sense of this. “Why?”

  Hillary blinked at her. “Why?” He paused, head tilting as he considered her, then said, “I suppose it’s been to my advantage that you haven’t recognized me. As you were only a child at the time, I daresay you don’t remember, but my name, my dear, is Hillary Nunsworth, and at one time—a sadly short time—I was deacon of this parish. Your father’s parish. Unfortunately, your sanctimonious father took a dim view of the monies I was collecting—in my opinion, nothing more than my due—from the parishioners and reported me to the bishop. Thanks to your father, I was defrocked and denied the vocation I had trained for—along with my ability to make an easy living as a suitably respected member of society.”

  His voice took on a darker, distinctly ugly tone. “Rather than being looked up to, rather than having people curry my favor, I was shown the vicarage door, and the village tu
rned against me. I was hounded out!” His eyes flared, and he trained his feverish gaze on Sylvia. “And it was all your father’s fault! Because of him, I’ve been forced to eke out a living exhorting money from the gullible in Bristol.” His eyes narrowed to burning shards, and he lowered his voice to a grating growl. “And day by day, week by week, month after long month for a good decade and more, I’ve nurtured and nursed my hatred for your father.”

  As Nunsworth glowered darkly at her, Sylvia swallowed. Her heart was thudding in a panicky tattoo.

  Then even more disturbingly, Nunsworth’s expression lightened and cleared. “And then, my dear Sylvia, a few weeks ago, I saw you in the city.” In conversational vein, he went on, “At first, I wasn’t sure it was you, so I asked around.” His gaze resting on her face, his expression one of pleased anticipation, he said, “When I learned that you were, indeed, Sylvia Buckleberry—well.” His lips drew back in a gloating smile. “I knew the time for my revenge had come.”

  * * *

  Kit didn’t wait to hear more. He’d already peeked around the hatch and found that, as he’d hoped, it opened into a deeply shadowed area of the mill’s rear section, out of direct sight of where Hillary’s—no, Nunsworth’s—voice placed him, which was somewhere in the middle of the main building.

  There on the riverbank, daylight was starting to fade, cut off by higher land to the west. That would work to Kit’s and his helpers’ advantage; with any luck, when Kit went through the hatch, no sudden shaft of bright light would give him away.

  He swiveled on his heel and pointed to Smiggs, then, with his hands, mimed that Smiggs should go around to the mill’s front door, wait until he heard Kit pounce, then come storming in to assist.

  Smiggs gave a curt nod and, moving silently, vanished into the bushes.

  Kit fixed the three boys with a stern look and mouthed, “Stay here.” He knew it was futile, but felt compelled to try to protect them.

  All three looked at him with innocent eyes and said nothing.

  Resisting the urge to roll his own eyes, Kit turned and, opening the hatch as little as possible, slipped through. He didn’t have time to argue with the boys, not with Sylvia facing a madman.

  He found himself beside the old waterwheels. The entire area was shrouded in deep shadow and a low wall—about chest high—cut the area off from the main floor of the mill.

  He carefully rose and spotted Nunsworth standing on the far side of a raised stone platform. He was looking down as he continued to talk, suggesting that Sylvia was sitting on the floor with her back to the platform.

  Kit crouched and quickly made his way to the edge of the partition. He glanced around it, but Nunsworth’s gaze remained lowered, his attention fixed on Sylvia.

  There was a large skylight in the ceiling above and behind where Nunsworth stood, and the soft, late-afternoon light illuminated a square of floor between Nunsworth and the main door. Kit glimpsed a figure sprawled, unmoving, on the ground not far from the door. A watchman? From the look of the man, he wasn’t going to be able to help.

  Kit refocused on Nunsworth. The light from above made the shadows wreathing the rest of the mill floor appear darker and gloomier. Clinging to those shadows, placing his feet with care and keeping to a crouch, Kit ghosted forward using benches and tool racks for cover, eventually fetching up at the rear of the stone platform. He paused, but Nunsworth continued talking, enumerating and railing against all the supposed slights visited on him by the villagers.

  The stone slab was roughly twelve feet by twelve feet in area, about waist high, and had rails running along three sides. As he’d neared the slab, Kit had seen that Nunsworth had tied Sylvia’s hands, arms spread wide, to the railing on the opposite side.

  Kit glanced up and saw the huge iron plate suspended above the slab. Presumably when the mill was operating, the plate would pound down on crude brass sheet spread on the slab, flattening it to the desired thickness.

  Given the way Nunsworth had positioned Sylvia, he didn’t plan on using the iron plate to enact his revenge; Kit took some small comfort from that.

  Dismissing the gruesome thought, he crept to the corner of the slab and eased his way around it.

  A whisper of sound from the depths of the mill told him that, as he’d expected, the boys had followed him inside. He had to trust that their sneaking skills were at least as good as his; he couldn’t afford to shift his attention from Sylvia and Nunsworth to check.

  Nunsworth was a larger man than Kit had anticipated; he was as tall as Kit, of heavier build, and powerful with it.

  Kit needed some weapon to tip the scales and bring this situation to a safe end—safe for Sylvia as well as the others. Inch by inch, Kit crept toward the next corner, scanning the benches and tool racks nearby for some implement he could use.

  * * *

  Sylvia had nearly eased her left hand from her glove. One tug, and that hand would be free.

  She’d also managed to stretch the gag somewhat, enough that, when Nunsworth’s tirade against the villagers of Saltford ran down, she managed to mumble reasonably clearly, “It was you who I sensed watching me.”

  She was perfectly certain she needed to keep him talking as long as she could. She hadn’t yet worked out how to free her feet.

  His hands in his pockets, Nunsworth blinked at her. “Was I the one watching you?” When she nodded, he smiled, transparently pleased by what he saw as his own cleverness. “Yes, indeed. I made sure I knew all about you before I acted. I required the better part of a day to enact the scenario I’ve devised as most likely to cause your father the maximum excruciating pain.”

  He paused, looking over her head as if relishing the thought of her father’s agony, then lowered his gaze to her face and smiled smugly. “I needed a day during which no one was likely to realize you were missing. Well, other than your landlady, the estimable Mrs. Macintyre, but I believe I can rely on her to dither. She won’t want to go to the authorities in case she’s acting precipitously and ends somehow sullying your reputation. I know how those like her—like the villagers here—think. No. Mrs. Macintyre will wait to see if you return, and by the time she realizes you aren’t going to, it’ll be far too late.”

  Nunsworth’s smile of anticipation grew. “Far, far too late for anyone to save you.” He studied her for a moment, then went on, “Sunday, of course, was the obvious day. As a clergyman’s daughter, your movements on Sunday are entirely predictable—you go to church in the morning and return to your lodgings to take luncheon with your landlady, and she is the only one to see you through the rest of the day. The Sabbath, our day of rest.”

  Except, Sylvia thought, Kit had been coming to walk out with her. She glanced upward, at the softening sky visible through the skylight. She didn’t know what time it was, but surely Kit would have called long since. He would guess that something had befallen her...

  Was it possible he might realize what had happened and be driving to her rescue?

  She couldn’t see how. Surreptitiously wriggling her still-anchored right hand, she decided she couldn’t hope for rescue; she would have to save herself.

  In gloating vein, Nunsworth continued, “Indeed, Sunday is the perfect day—the day of the week on which your father is at his most righteous.” Nunsworth all but preened. “I’ve laid my plans quite brilliantly, if I do say so myself.” He looked down at her, yet didn’t seem to actually see her, and purred, “This is going to be so very satisfying.”

  She got the distinct impression that, in looking at her, he was seeing not her but some vision that pleased him to no end; her skin crawled.

  But she almost had both her hands loose. Desperate to keep him dwelling on his plan rather than acting it out, she mumbled, “But why here?”

  Refocusing on her, he tipped his head, then ventured, “Why bring you here?”

  She nodded, trying to let nothing more than sincere in
terest show in her eyes.

  He arched his brows in a superior way. “I would have thought that obvious, my dear. I want your father to see your body, and that sooner rather than later, so he can appreciate it in all its gory glory. As close as we are to the vicarage, I think that’s guaranteed. I want him to see what his piety has bought him.” Nunsworth’s features contorted, viciousness overtaking his expression as he raised his head. “I want to watch and see his shock. I want to watch him grieve! And ultimately, when he reads my note, I want to see guilt swamp him and bring him to his knees!”

  The last was said like a clarion call—a summons to battle.

  Abruptly, Nunsworth looked down and pinned Sylvia with his gaze. All humanity had leached from his face. “I want,” he stated, “your father to understand that your death and the manner of it is a judgment I’ve passed on him. He took from me the life I should have had. In return, I’ll take a life from him.”

  Kit was crouching by the corner of the slab, a mere two yards from Sylvia. His blood ran cold at Nunsworth’s words. The man might be insane, but he was also deadly serious, driven by compulsive intent and a hatred fueled by obsession.

  A rack of tools off to Kit’s right offered a pair of long, heavy iron tongs, the most useful implement Kit had spotted. But in going for the tongs, he would immediately be seen by Nunsworth.

  The man was droning on, “I admit that I will regret marring such loveliness, but sadly for you, my dear, you are your father’s only child. So I fear it’s you who must pay.” Nunsworth bent, reaching for something on the floor.

  Kit couldn’t see what Nunsworth was about to pick up, then his gaze was caught by movement on the floor behind Nunsworth. The watchman was starting to stir.

  An in-drawn breath close behind Kit had him nearly jumping from his skin. He glanced back and saw Ollie just behind him, peering over the top of the slab, his eyes widening and a horrified look breaking across his face.