by Jane Ashford
Sir Charles, meantime, was removing his carriage to a livery nearby, where he could leave it out of sight. His plans were not yet fully formed—he had acted on impulse—so he was also thinking furiously. He could not go home; indeed, he could not go to any of his usual haunts in London. He must not be seen until tomorrow. But he could communicate with his servants. As he thought of this, a self-satisfied smile dawned on his dark features. Yes, that was it. At the livery, he asked for pen and paper, and was dubiously led to a small office and supplied with very inferior examples. Still smiling, he composed a note to his valet—the only personal servant he kept—informing him that he and Lady Wyndham had decided to elope, and that he was to tell no one of their plan. As he sealed this missive and offered one of the stable boys a coin to deliver it, his smile widened. Turvey was constitutionally incapable of keeping anything to himself, and this irritating trait would be very convenient today. The news would undoubtedly leak out; Anabel would be trapped.
When he had finished, it was well past midday. Norbury adjourned to a tavern in the neighborhood, where he was most unlikely to meet anyone he knew. To make certain, he took a private parlor and settled contentedly to cold meat and claret. He would pass the day here, he decided, perhaps even take a room. It would be easier to carry out his plan if he did not have to face Anabel. Her final accusations had shaken him more than he would admit. Pushing this thought aside, he called for another bottle.
* * *
Christopher Hanford called at Lady Goring’s at three, to hear from Anabel how her talk with Norbury had gone, and was very surprised to be told that none of the ladies were at home. Frowning at the footman who had given him this news, he said, “Are you certain of that? My name is Hanford, and I believe Lady Wyndham is expecting me.”
“I’m sorry, sir. She isn’t here.” The servant’s normally impassive face showed a tremor of some emotion, but he merely waited, holding the door.
“Uncle Christopher!” hissed a voice from farther along the hall, and Nick’s head appeared from the library. “Come here.”
The footman looked uncertain. Hanford brushed past him and strode into the room. “Nick? What are you doing down here? Where is your mother?”
The boy pulled him forward and shut the door. His face looked pinched, and his blue eyes were worried. “She’s run away,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Quiet! I’m not supposed to know, and I don’t want William or Susan to hear. They may be looking for me.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Hanford in a lower voice.
“I heard Grandmama telling Georgina before luncheon. Mama went out with Sir Charles Norbury, and she didn’t come back. They have gone out to look for her.” Nicholas was puzzled and dejected. “Do you think she ran away with him? She told us she wasn’t going to marry him after all, but perhaps she changed her mind, and she didn’t want to tell us because she knew we would be unhappy. We should never have objected to—”
“Nonsense!” snapped Hanford, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “It is nothing like that.”
“You think not?” The boy was hopeful.
Hanford became aware of the resolutely suppressed fear in his eyes. “I’m certain it is just a mistake,” he replied firmly. “Your mother forgot to tell them of another engagement, I daresay. She will be home for dinner.”
“That’s what Grandmama said,” replied Nick doubtfully, “but she didn’t sound sure.”
“What else did she say?”
“Well, they said Mama had gone out driving with Sir Charles at eleven, and that she should have been back hours ago.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s three now.”
“They went driving?’” Nick stared, and Hanford controlled himself. “Anything else?”
“No. But Grandmama seemed worried.”
“Everything will be all right. But you mustn’t speak to anyone else about this.”
Nicholas shook his head, frowning.
“I will be back later today.”
“Are you going after her?” He sounded hopeful again.
“It is not a question of that. I have some business.” Hanford stalked out, and Nick watched him with unallayed worry in his face.
As soon as he was out of the house Christopher gave way to rage. It was obvious to him what had happened. Anabel had tried to break it off, and Norbury had made away with her. Why had she gone out with him? She might have known…but he paused, just even in his fury. She could not have predicted that the man would act this way. Even he had not imagined such villainy.
Seeing a hackney cab, he signaled it to stop. He would have to find them and bring her back. But before he did, he would teach Sir Charles Norbury the lesson of his life. The idea made him smile humorlessly.
He overcame the first obstacle—his ignorance of Norbury’s address—with ease, obtaining it from an acquaintance at White’s. But when he pulled up before Norbury’s lodgings in Ryder Street and knocked, he was told by the retired gentleman’s gentleman who looked after the chambers that Sir Charles was out. “This is a matter of great urgency,” replied Hanford. “Is anyone in his rooms? I must find him.”
Something in his eyes seemed to impress the man. “His valet Turvey is here. Would you wish to speak with him?”
“Yes!”
The other drew back. “This way.”
Turvey, who was pressing a coat in the kitchen, was startled at the interruption, for Hanford had insisted upon accompanying the man downstairs. When asked for his master’s whereabouts, he gaped and bridled. “I’m sure I don’t know,” he answered. But he exchanged a speaking look with the proprietor.
Christopher was in no mood for evasions. Stepping forward, he grasped the valet’s neckcloth and pulled it tight, shaking him slightly. “Tell me where he is!” he said between his teeth.
Turvey choked and gabbled. “Sir!” exclaimed the other man. “Please, sir!”
Hanford merely shook Turvey again, watching the man’s face purple with savage satisfaction.
Turvey goggled desperately at his friend, who held out his hands in helpless query, then croaked, “He’s eloped.”
“What?” Hanford let go, and the man fell in a heap.
“With Lady Wyndham, to whom he is engaged,” added the valet haughtily, readjusting his collar. Now that the news was out, he seemed to savor his superior knowledge. “Very romantic, ain’t it?” He smirked.
Christopher bent over him. “If you dare to repeat that tale to anyone, I shall make you regret it. Do you understand me?” He took his lapels again and shook him.
Turvey gaped again, turning pale at what he saw in Hanford’s eyes.
“Where is the groom who went out with Sir Charles this morning?”
Turvey’s mouth dropped open. Hanford looked murderous.
“Round in the stables,” said the other man, who had been increasingly worried. He was eager to get Hanford out of his house before he caused some damage.
Christopher released the valet. “And where might that be?”
“In the mews.” He pointed toward the rear of the house.
“Does that door go through to them?”
Reluctantly the proprietor nodded, and Hanford pushed past them and out. Turvey, rubbing his neck, met the other’s eyes. “A rum go, and no mistake,” he said.
His companion agreed. “I wonder if your master’s finally met his match, Turvey. That gentleman was in a fine rage, he was.”
The valet nodded, and the two of them contemplated the probable outcome with avid eyes.
In the stables, after one look at the groom, Hanford gave up violence for monetary persuasion, and he was soon informed of the circumstances of the morning drive and of the fact that the phaeton had not returned. Picturing a high-perch phaeton on the country roads, Christopher shook his head. “Your
master has another place in London, does he not?” he asked. “A house somewhere he uses? You have driven him there.”
“Have I, guv?”
Hanford held out a ten-pound note, and the man raised his eyebrows. “Happen I have.”
“What is the address?”
The groom looked at him, then at the money. He grinned and told him.
Hanford left Ryder Street almost weak with relief. He had hazarded everything on a theory, and it had paid off. Anabel was in that house; he knew it. It had been the only possible explanation. Norbury could not drive an unwilling woman out of town in a phaeton, and he could not have taken her to a public inn. Now it remained only to get there and free her. In another hackney, Christopher cursed every cart and pedestrian that delayed his progress to her.
Eighteen
Norbury poured the last of the second bottle of claret in the late afternoon. He sat at his ease in the inn parlor, his legs stretched out, turning the wineglass by the stem and watching the light dance in the ruby liquid. He was not foxed, but the fumes of the wine surrounded his brain and filled it with self-congratulatory images. He remembered past triumphs and pleasures; he recalled the series of mistresses he had kept in the small house where his future wife now waited. The juxtaposition amused him. It seemed somehow apt. He had dismissed the last occupant soon after he had offered for Anabel, feeling extremely virtuous and domestic, but the lease had several months to run, and he had done nothing about getting rid of it. Now it was serving a final purpose.
He wondered what Anabel was doing and, in thinking about her, frowned. He was a bit disappointed in his promised bride; she had limitations he had not seen until today. How could any woman prefer Hanford to him? The man was a nobody, a country squire without pretensions to fashion or ton. He had no wit and, as far as Norbury had seen, little intelligence. He was like a thousand others. Norbury could only conclude, as he had told Anabel, that Hanford had tricked her. He had played upon her maternal feelings in a vulnerable moment. The more Norbury thought about it, the more certain he was that Hanford had staged the children’s disappearance, then used it to his own advantage. It was the only possible explanation.
Still, Anabel should not have been so easily taken in. She was absurdly attached to those children. It came of shutting herself up with them in the country for so many years. Her perceptions had become distorted. But that would soon change. Norbury sipped his wine, smiling slightly. He had no doubt whatever of his ability to bring Anabel around to his own way of thinking. He had done as much so many times in the past. Women had resisted him or rebelled against his strictures, but in the end, they had capitulated to his powerful personality and physical charms. In the one or two cases where they had not, he had abandoned the field in disdain.
Anabel would soon change her tone, when he was able to exert the full force of his persuasive powers. He had been hampered with her, as he had not with his mistresses, by convention and propriety. Once they were wed, she would be very pleased that he had not let her break it off.
His smile widening, Norbury imagined the scene. There was always a thrill in overcoming a woman’s initial opposition, and in this case it would have a particular spice, for his feelings for Anabel were truly quite strong. In a way he loved her, and drawing out her eager response would be vastly exciting. The picture, heightened by the claret, inflamed him, and he suddenly realized that there was no need to wait. Anabel was his now. Transfixed, he gazed at the wall of the tavern parlor. His determination to marry her remained firm—they would marry, and soon—thus they were practically married already. And how much easier it would be to have a willing, fervent bride than to force her through the ceremony. He would make her see her mistake first, now.
His pale green eyes gleaming, Norbury stood and tossed off the last of the wine. Leaving a few coins on the table, he retrieved his hat and strode out into the street. The afternoon was waning; dusk was near. It would be the perfect time for a seduction. His expression eager, he set off to walk the short distance to the house.
* * *
Anabel watched the day ending with resignation. She had run the gamut of emotions as it passed, from anger to hope to despair. She had had no luck in attracting the attention of passersby. Those who had heard her calling through the broken window had ignored her, and most had shown no sign of even hearing. Now she was simply waiting for this outrage to end. She knew what she would do tomorrow—depart for home at once—and she had finally admitted that there was nothing to be done before that.
She was lying on the narrow bed, hoping for sleep to make the time pass more quickly, when she heard the footsteps on the stairs. She sat up at once and listened; she had not expected Norbury to return before morning. Could this be someone else? She stood and moved around the bed, putting it between her and the door.
The lock clicked, and he came in, scanning the dim room for her and smiling when he saw her position. “Anabel, my dear. Are you comfortable?” With a twist of his hand, he relocked the door, putting the key in an inner pocket.
“Why have you come back?” She didn’t like his tone.
“To see that you are all right, of course. I was worried you might be frightened, all alone in an empty house.”
“I should be much better at home. Perhaps you’ve reconsidered this ridiculous scheme?”
He shook his head, still smiling, and moved closer.
“It is not going to work, you know. I shall weather the scandal. I prefer it to marrying you.” He didn’t seem to hear. He stepped still nearer, and Anabel caught the scent of wine. For the first time a hint of fear shot through her. In the gathering twilight Norbury seemed very large and strong. What did he mean to do? “I thought you were coming back in the morning,” she added.
“A better plan occurred to me.”
He was very close now, and Anabel straightened, refusing to cower in the corner. “What better plan?”
Instead of answering, he moved swiftly, catching her shoulders and pulling her against him, his lips fastening irresistibly on hers. He propelled her backward toward the wall and imprisoned her body with his.
Anabel twisted and struggled, but she could not break free. When she brought her hands up to claw at him, he grasped her wrists and encircled them with one of his behind her back. She could not even avoid his kiss; he kept his lips on hers and pressed her head against the wall. His free hand roved about her body, teasing and seeking to inflame, expert in the ways of passion. She could feel his excitement growing, and she stopped struggling, fearing that her resistance increased rather than quenched his desire.
Norbury felt it and laughed a little. “You see? You were wrong. I am the man for you.” His voice was thick with desire, and he began to force her around the headboard to the bed.
Anabel, frantic, suddenly remembered the key. It was in his pocket; she had seen him put it there. If she could get it away… Slowly, so as not to arouse his suspicions, she relaxed in his arms. Norbury laughed again and released her wrists, the other hand fondling her breast as he buried his face in her neck. Anabel carefully moved her hands along his sides and across the lapels of his coat. It was the left waistcoat pocket, she was sure.
In another moment she had the key! She threw all her strength into one effort to break his hold, and failed. It didn’t even loosen. Indeed, her momentary lapse had allowed him to maneuver her to the bed, and now he forced her down upon it, covering her body with his. “The key, eh?” he murmured. “Keep it, and see if you want to use it after a while.” One of his hands pulled at her skirts and moved up her leg under them; the other remained on her breast.
Anabel saw that her tactics had been to no avail, and she struggled desperately again. It was no use; he was too strong. “I hate you!” she cried. “And I always shall, whatever happens.”
He raised his head, surprised. He had thought she would be yielding by now. He kissed her throat, her lips, h
er forehead; she remained rigid, her face turned away. Reining in his passion, he redoubled his efforts to arouse her, using every trick he had gleaned in a long and varied amorous career. She was unmoved. Puzzled, Norbury drew a little away, while keeping a firm hold on her, and looked into her eyes. She looked back at him with fear and contempt.
They stared at each other for a moment, neither in the least understanding what was in the other’s mind. Then the tension was broken by a rhythmic crashing sound downstairs. The volume increased to a crescendo; there was a splintering of wood, then the sound of running footsteps on the stairs.
Norbury sat up with a jerk. He twisted the key from Anabel’s hand and rose, listening to the noise with a scowl.
“Anabel!” called a male voice. “Anabel!”
“Christopher!” she cried, sitting up also. “Here I am.”
The footsteps pounded to a stop outside the door of the room. “Are you all right? Can you open the door?”
“No, it’s locked and—”
“I have the key,” roared Norbury, striding toward the entry. His brief puzzlement had exploded into rage at this appearance of his rival and the thwarting of his desire. Whatever qualms he had felt had been swept away. He felt murderous.
The door shook under a heavy blow, then, at a second blow, the hinges on the ancient, poorly made door ripped from their foundation and Christopher burst through. “To the rescue once again, eh?” sneered Sir Charles.
With an inarticulate cry of rage, Hanford threw himself upon the man, and they fell together and rolled over and over on the dusty floor. Anabel stood and looked for a weapon, but there was none. She strained forward, trying to decipher the tangle of limbs in the fading light. Each man had his hands locked around the other’s throat, and Norbury was gouging Christopher with his knees. She stepped forward, hoping to help him, but they rolled again at that moment, and she could get no clear opening.
