A Season for Love

by Blair Bancroft

  Jen’s knees gave way. She clutched at the back of a chair, her knuckles turning white in the effort to keep her feet. The escritoire. Pen. Paper. She must write . . .

  No! A waste of time. “Sims,” the duchess snapped, struggling to regain her much-vaunted courage, “send both Kerby and Micah to find the duke and fetch him home. They are to try the War Office, the Horse Guards, the Foreign Office, Carlton House itself if they must. His clubs, of course, but they are to go there last, for I very much doubt he is whiling away his time while Bonaparte is on the march.

  “Your Grace, shall I send to Bow Street?” Sims ventured.

  “Yes, of course,” the duchess cried. “Thank you for thinking of that. Though what any of us can do I cannot imagine,” she added more to herself than to her audience. “Three people vanished into the great city of London. If we had use of all the Guards and Dragoons—even if most had not been sent off to Belgium—we would not know where to look.” Jen blinked back a rush of tears as Sarah Tompkins sobbed aloud.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Twenty

  “Is he dead?”

  “I do not think so,” Caroline whispered in reply, bending low over Tony’s head, which was cradled in her lap.

  Laurence Carlington was made of stouter stuff than his recent temper tantrums would imply. Pushing aside the viscount’s forest green jacket and embroidered satin waistcoat, he laid an ear directly onto the thin lawn shirt above his heart. Although the thud of a beating heart was faint, Laurence’s efforts were rewarded by the warm and indefinable feel of a living man. He nodded sagely, a gesture neither he nor his sister found odd in their present dire circumstances. “He’s alive,” the boy pronounced.

  “He has a quite terrible lump on his head,” Caroline said, keeping her voice to a whisper, though at the moment they were quite alone.

  The Marquess of Huntley heaved a world-weary sigh, his shoulders slumping in dejection. “Then I daresay he will not be of much help,” he said, his lower lip betraying the faintest of quivers.

  “I fear not,” Caroline murmured. For the first time she looked around the room into which they had been unceremoniously dumped, as if they were but bales of hay. They were in a vast storage area, evidently a warehouse of some kind. Most of the floor space was filled with metal-bound wooden barrels and, in one corner, a tall stack of smaller wooden kegs. In addition, against an outside wall was a pile of wooden crates, each perhaps a yard square, stacked one upon another to the height of twelve feet or more. How that had been managed Caroline could not imagine. Was there a stout ladder somewhere about? If so . . .

  Her gaze rose toward the high ceiling. Above the pile of wooden crates, narrow windows provided the room’s only light. If they could but climb up . . .

  Obviously, their captors considered that method of escape quite useless, else they would not have left them with their hands unbound. An unconscious man, a girl, and a small boy. All deemed incompetent and in no danger of escaping. They were probably right, Caroline sighed, her spirit wavering. Perhaps . . . yes, very likely the windows overlooked the river.

  No! Even the river was preferable to captivity, Caroline amended, banishing her momentary weakness. Laurence had been able to swim since he was five. So could she.

  But, at the moment, Tony could not.

  Caroline refocused on the handsome face in her lap, his skin so white, the intelligent blue eyes shuttered, the charm, the teasing manner, the gallantries silenced. When she had feared he might be dead, anguish had extinguished her spirit as a waterfall wipes out a candle flame. Her world narrowed to a single focus. Anthony Norville. Viscount Frayne. Tony. For a moment, even her much-beloved Laurence had faded from her sight.

  Tony. Her mind balked, refusing to accept the shocking and highly uncomfortable revelation of just how much she cared for him.

  Particularly when the dratted man was utterly useless, Caroline grumbled to herself, fighting her treacherous emotions. She, and she alone, would have to save them all. After all, Papa would never forgive her if they lost his heir.

  Unfair. Papa loved her. He would rescue them both.

  But how? Not even the great Duke of Longville could possibly guess where they had gone.

  A moan, a slight stir. Tony! Another murmur, and the viscount was once again inert. Still . . . so very still. Lord Frayne, the fribble. The fribble who had begun to show signs of loving her. She could not possibly care for such a man! And was it not typical that he should be lying there, dead to the world, when he was most needed?

  Quite naturally, Caroline instantly suffered an attack of conscience. Poor wounded Tony could not help being useless in this emergency. Tentatively, she traced a finger along his full lower lip. More boldly, she outlined his mouth with her fingertip, then gently cupped his cheeks in her hands. “Tony, Tony,” she murmured, “what are we to do? You must come back to us, dear heart, we need you.”

  “Uncle Tony, Uncle Tony,” Laurence urged, giving the viscount’s shoulder a small shake.

  “Still out, is he?” boomed a voice from the door. “Guess I ’it ’im a mite hard. Ain’t dead, is he?” Bert Tunney strode across the worn wood floor and nudged the viscount’s inert form with his booted toe.

  “Stop that!” Caroline ordered. “Have you not done enough harm?”

  Tunney chortled. “Spirited, are ye, missy? Even after all that’s ’appened. I likes that in a woman. No doubt you’ll fetch a good price at Mrs. Pritchard’s.”

  “That ain’t what we agreed,” Alfie Grubbs whined as he, too, approached the three victims, with Flann McCollum close behind. “It’s gold we want. The duke’ll pay far more fer ’er than Mrs. Pritchard.”

  “That’s right,” Flann seconded. “And what would you say your da’s good for, my fair beauty? Ten thousand pounds? Twenty?”

  So that was it! Caroline stifled her rush of relief. If it’s ransom they wanted, the duke would pay, without a doubt. And they would soon be out of this horrid place. “My papa is a wealthy man,” she told them. “He will pay the ransom . . . but only if we are well treated. Otherwise,” she warned, very much the ducal daughter, “you will never live to spend your ill-got gains.”

  “Don’t matter,” Flann McCollum tossed off. “It’s the first ship to the Canadas for me. I’m turnin’ me back on this God-forsaken place as quick as I can.”

  “And me,” declared Alfie Grubbs. “I reckon the ’ouses ain’t such good pickins on t’other side of the ocean, but I figure m’ welcome in London is about played out.”

  “Fools!” growled Bert Tunney. “Haven’t y’ ’eard? Old Boney’s attackin’ and our army filled with naught but green troops, with all our fine Peninsula veterans sent off to fight the Americans.”

  “Boney’s attacking!” the Marquess of Huntley cried.

  “Oh, aye, m’ lad, he surely is,” said the burly carter. “Goin’ to whup our fine army ’e is, make mince meat of ’em. And then he’ll take Europe again, and we’re next. And then where’ll your fancy title be, boy? Your fine ’ouses and carriages and high-falutin’ ways?”

  “Good God,” Caroline exclaimed, “you’re an anarchist!”

  Bert Tunney squared his broad shoulders and preened a bit. “Been in every riot since the ’eighties, I have. High time we brought the guillotine to London.”

  “You know,” declared a new voice to the conversation, “you are quite mad, the lot of you. Longville will have your hides for breakfast.”

  “He’ll grind your bones,” Laurence added fiercely, accepting his uncle’s resurrection from the dead without a blink.

  “Also,” Tony continued casually, in spite of a slight struggle in which Caroline was obliged to help him sit up, “you were undoubtedly prepared to deal with a footman. Instead, you are fortunate enough to have me. Which adds to the amount of ransom you may demand, as my father is rather fond of me as well.”

  Caroline, annoyed, glared at the man she had so recently admitted into her well-armored heart. Unless . . . but, of course. H
e was reinforcing their captors’ greed, reminding them of the money to be had. Making sure they did not panic and run, selling Laurence to a chimney sweep and herself into whoredom, with himself shanghaied into the ever-desperate navy.

  Tony must have been conscious for longer than she had thought, Caroline realized. He had heard what was said earlier. He . . . oh, merciful heavens, had he felt her fingers on his face?

  “So what are ye worth to your da?” Flann McCollum inquired.

  “You might try five thousand for each of us,” the viscount suggested. “Ten from the duke and the remainder from my father, the Earl of Worley. That makes five for each of you,” Tony pointed out. “A sum that will take you wherever you wish to go and set you up for life. Or,” he added, looking at Bert Tunney, “fund a good bit of revolution.”

  “If’n ’e says five,” declared Alfie Grubbs, “then the dook’ll pay twice that. ’Is lordship’s pa as well.” Flann McCollum whistled through his teeth.

  “Ten thousand apiece . . . a fine figure,” Bert Tunney declared. “Twenty from his magnificence, the great Dee-ook of Longville, and ten from the earl. ’Tis likely they’ve lost more’n that in a night’s play, ain’t they?” He turned accusing eyes on the viscount, as if to charge him and the entire aristocracy of taking this money from the mouths of babes.

  “Perhaps you might allow me to write the ransom letter,” Tony suggested blandly. “I imagine Longville and the earl will thus be better assured we are still alive.”

  “I sees the knock on your head ain’t scrambled your brains, m’boy,” Bert approved. “Git ’im some paper, Alfie. Go on, now, ’urry it up.”

  “Please, sir,” Laurence interjected, “is there some food?”

  Four pairs of eyes stared at the seven-year-old. Caroline hushed her brother, pulling him down beside her.

  “In the letter I shall make our well-being a condition for paying the ransom,” Tony said into the silence. “We all need food and drink.”

  “And a chamber pot,” Caroline whispered, utterly mortified, but too much in need to any longer avoid the embarrassing topic.

  Flann McCollum laughed. Bert Tunney snorted. But in not much more than half an hour their requests were granted. In return for the viscount handing over two letters, one for his father and one for the Duke of Longville.

  Gradually, the light behind the narrow dirty windows high above darkened to the deep twilight of a London night close to Mid-summer Eve. “I should have asked for a candle,” Caroline sighed, as Laurence snuggled close. She was sitting, shoulder to shoulder, with Tony, their backs against the wooden crates, which were more even than the sides of the rounded barrels. “Is your head very bad?” she asked.

  “Devilish,” Tony admitted. “I am inclined to think we should attempt to climb up to the windows, using those kegs as stairsteps, but I doubt I can even make it to my feet. Truthfully, we’ll be fortunate if your papa and mine can read my letters.”

  “I noticed your hand was a bit unsteady.” Caroline spoke softly, for Laurence had succumbed to sleep at last.

  “Caroline . . . I do not like to increase your fear, but it’s possible they will take the money and still not let us go. You heard the big one. He’s a bit touched in the upper works when it comes to the nobility. The other two, I suspect, are in it for the money, but that one is out to revenge all the wrongs the lower classes have suffered. I think you must take Laurence and get out of here as best you can.”

  “No! We will not leave you. And, besides, I fear what is outside may be worse than what is within. Laurence and I are, perhaps, more likely to be sold into slavery if we leave than if we stay. And,” she added with chagrin, “I very much doubt I could lift even one keg, let alone enough to make steps to the top.”

  “Necessity, my dear. You and Laurence together could manage it.” Tony broke off with a groan. “Devil it! This head of mine has unmanned me. Just as I am needed!”

  Caroline laid her fingers on his arm. “When you can go with us, we will make our escape,” she told him with calm assurance. “Until then, we must endure. Come, put your head back in my lap. A few hours’ rest and you shall be right as rain.”

  The viscount did not argue. After a bit of awkward shuffling, they finally managed some semblance of comfort. “You will have to marry me, you know,” Tony said into the darkness. “This is a most intimate position.”

  Caroline, already aware of that fact, bent low, until even in the deep shadows inside the warehouse Tony was in no doubt that her breasts hung just above his nose. Obviously, he was beginning to recover from his injury because parts of his anatomy stirred strongly to life. “Ah . . . Caroline, I think perhaps we should reconsider . . .”

  “Be quiet,” she whispered. “You cannot know how I have longed to have you in such a vulnerable position.” And she kissed him quite thoroughly.

  Sometime later, as the silence deepened and Caroline felt herself the only person still awake in the city of London, she came at last to the truth of the matter. Anthony Norville, Viscount Frayne, was not a fribble. No, indeed. He had not panicked, whined, or begged in fear for his life. He had, in fact, quite cooly and calmly gone about finding the best solution to their problem, in spite of a severe blow to his head. How amazingly fortuitous that he had happened along in time to escort them on this fateful day. Some might even call it a sign.

  Forgive me, mama, but I think you were wrong.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Good God!” The Duke of Longville looked up from his current task of attempting to find places for three pistols and a knife in the skin-tight clothing designed for a London gentleman in warm weather. “May I inquire, my dear duchess, exactly what it is that you are wearing?”

  Jen tossed her head, quite like the willful filly she was, Marcus thought, repressing an urge to smile that did not at all fit the dire circumstances of the moment. “These clothes,” she retorted, “were frequently my saving grace on the Peninsula. And I must tell you I am quite pleased I can still fit into them.”

  “Breeches or no,” the duke returned quite ominously, “you are not going with me.”

  “I daresay I can shoot far better than any Bow Street Runner,” Jen told him roundly.

  “I do not doubt it. You will, nonetheless, remain here. It is enough I stand to lose my children—”

  “You will not lose the children!” Jen cried. “And I intend to be there to make certain of it.”

  Slowly, the duke examined his wife from the masses of hair tucked up into a boy’s oversized brimmed cap, to the vaguely Spanish-style jacket whose pockets bulged with what appeared to be almost as expert an array of pistols as his own, to the breeches which fit her long legs rather too well, doing little to disguise rounded female hips; and, finally, to the lace-up boots which were so patently army-issue. She made a credible man, his wife, those sturdy shoulders and full number of inches standing her in good stead.

  He sighed. And made one last effort. “Jen, think of Susan,” he urged.

  “I have . . . but she is only one of my three children.”

  “Ah-h,” Marcus breathed, for the moment finding his emotions too overborne to speak coherently.

  “And, besides,” Jen added, “I do not plan to be shot, you know. We are to deliver the money and receive the children, are we not? Surely, not an onerous task.”

  “Frayne would not care to hear you call him a child.”

  Jen managed a faint smile. “No,” she agreed absently. “And, Marcus? If the villains are afraid to show themselves because they fear you—or if they catch sight of the Runners—I thought I might be useful. As the courier, you see.”

  The Duke of Longville howled. There was no other word for the noise that was torn from his throat. “If you go, Eugenia,” he roared, “you will remain in the carriage a good block away, prepared to receive our missing family. Is that understood?”

  Jen eyed the toes of her boots in order to hide her flash of triumph. By pushing outrage to
the limit, she had achieved her goal.

  But when the duke and duchess returned to Longville House three hours later, they were the sole occupants of the carriage. A burly man in a mask was thirty thousand pounds richer. The kidnapper’s only reply to the duke’s sharp question about his missing family had been: “No need to worrit yourself, y’r ’ighness. I daresay they’ll rescue theirselves.”

  And then, with armed men descending on him from all directions, Bert Tunney had dropped through a trap door into a waiting boat beneath the waterfront tavern appointed as the meeting place and disappeared into the darkness of the river before anyone could lay a hand on him.

  The Earl and Lady Worley, who had been waiting at Longville House, took one look at their daughter’s face as she and the duke entered the drawing room and cried out in anguish. Brandy was dispensed all around.

  “Bow Street warned me,” the duke muttered, “but I could not take the chance of angering the dastards. I did as I was told.”

  “Surely they spoke true,” Jen said for perhaps the twentieth time that night. “Our stray lambs will soon appear on the doorstep.”

  Lord Worley and the duke exchanged a look full of foreboding, but neither admitted to what he was thinking.

  “We will wait,” said Lady Worley. “That is, duke, if you do not mind.”

  “My dear lady, of course not,” Longville told her, before adding more softly, “But I wonder if they will come back to us before morning.”

  “We will wait,” Tony’s mother declared, her chin jutting into the air in a manner the duke found remarkably like her daughter’s.

  “Of course, mama,” said Jen. “We will all wait.”

  Since none of the kidnappers trusted the others, Alfie and Flann insisted on accompanying Bert when he picked up the money. So, after securely tying their victims’ hands and feet, Flann and Alfie rowed upriver and waited for Bert in a skiff beneath the tavern. After Bert’s plunge down into the small boat—with shots plunking into the water not far from them—Flann rowed like the fiends of hell were after him—or so he said as he finally shipped his oars and caught his breath, long after all pursuit had been lost in the darkness and they came to a quiet landing beneath the warehouse. With considerable anticipation, the three miscreants climbed a ladder into the building above and were finally able to examine the bulging leather bags.