by Jenna Jaxon
With a sideways glance at her mother, he leaned forward to whisper, “I was calculating if my remaining funds would extend to hiring a separate carriage for the return journey to London. Then we could linger as we liked as we retraced our steps. There would be no hurry then, and a carriage to ourselves would be much more enjoyable, don’t you think?”
“I believe you are correct,” she whispered back, sighing at the thought of having Jemmy all to herself for the five or more days’ journey.
The dawn light had become brighter, bathing the carriage with a pearly glow. Her gaze fell on her mother’s skirts, covering her heated bricks. A slow realization that her father’s feet had entirely disappeared underneath those skirts as well sent somewhat of a shock through her.
Jemmy let out a snort as he quickly shifted his gaze out the window.
Elizabeth followed suit, biting her tongue to keep from commenting to her mother about “sauce for the goose.”
The carriage slowly wound its way throughout the early-morning bustle of London. Hackney cabs lined the streets, their horses snorting out great plumes of white steam. Shops were beginning to open, ready for the day’s custom. They passed a baker’s shop just as an early customer entered and the delicious aroma of yeasty bread, fresh baked, wafted into the carriage.
A loud growl rumbled from Elizabeth’s stomach. She clamped both hands over the offending organ and met Jemmy’s laughing gaze.
“Did you eat nothing before we left, my love?” His lips twitched in suppressed mirth.
“You know we had no time for breakfast.” She lay her heated cheek against the cold windowpane, gazing longingly at the baker’s shop. “I do hope we can stop and remedy that once we are out of the press of the London traffic.”
“I shall insist upon it, my dear.” Jemmy squeezed her hand and turned toward her father. “Will that be acceptable, Lord Wentworth? Elizabeth did not break her fast this morning, which cannot be good for either her or the child. Can we stop as soon as we pass through Islington?”
“Better to wait until we’ve reached the Great North Road and left London completely.” Papa’s gaze rested on her thoughtfully. “I’d say about another hour unless the traffic gets worse.”
Not at all what she’d wanted to hear, but Elizabeth nodded, hoping her stomach would stay quiet until then. She’d not felt hungry until that wonderful bakery smell had assaulted them. Catching Jemmy’s eye, she smiled at him, trying to reassure him. His face, however, now wore that determined look she was coming to know well—brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, lips a thin straight slash across his face.
He glanced out the window again, then pounded frantically on the trap. “Stop the carriage!”
“What the devil?” Papa grabbed the strap beside the door as the carriage lurched to a stop.
Elizabeth and her mother clutched each other to keep from sliding off the seat.
Jemmy threw the door open and bounded out into the street.
“Jemmy!” Elizabeth called as he dodged through the thickening traffic until he was lost to her sight.
“You are marrying a lunatic, Elizabeth. I hope you are satisfied.” Mama straightened her bonnet again and glared meaningfully in the direction Jemmy had disappeared.
“I am sure he has a good reason for this behavior, Mama. He is hardly a lunatic, as well you know.” Although she spoke with conviction, privately Elizabeth entertained the possibility that Mama’s pronouncement might have a grain of truth. Without a doubt, Jemmy was impetuous. Was that a virtue or a failing in a man?
Markson had moved the carriage to the side of the street, where they sat for some minutes, Mama tapping her hand rhythmically on her knee. “I will certainly speak to Lord Brack about this behavior as soon as—”
“Look.” Papa pointed down the street toward Jemmy, dodging his way back toward them laden with several parcels that stuck out helter-skelter. “Apparently he did have a plan.” Papa opened the carriage door, and Jemmy thrust the packages into Elizabeth’s lap as he scrambled in.
Immediately the carriage filled with the most mouthwatering scent of fresh bread and sweet rolls. Almost tasting the smell, Elizabeth licked her lips and beamed at her beloved.
“No need to wait to eat, my love, my lady,” Jemmy nodded to her mother, “when there was food to be had for ready money.”
“Why indeed.” Elizabeth tore the brown paper from a loaf of crusty, hot bread, tore off a chunk, and popped it into her mouth. The explosion of warm, sweet goodness in her mouth made her groan with pleasure. “I love you, Jemmy.”
“Well done, Brack.” Papa tore off a piece and offered it his wife. “Have some, my dear.”
Mama rolled her eyes at him but took the offering and bit into it with gusto. “My thanks to you. Lord Brack. I believe you will do, after all.”
“There is fresh butter and a pot of marmalade as well.” Crossing his arms, Jemmy settled back in his seat, a satisfied smile on his face.
“Bless you, my love.” Elizabeth unwrapped the rest of the parcels, and little was heard for the next half an hour save “Pass the butter, please,” and “My, but this is sticky.”
Sated at last, Elizabeth sank back against the seat, relaxing into a wonderful, drowsy state. “I believe I shall nap until we reach the first changing post. How far do you think it is, Papa?”
“We’ve just now turned onto the Old North Road proper,” he replied, surreptitiously licking marmalade from his fingers. “We will come to the tollbooth at Whetstone shortly. After that, perhaps a mile or so, there’s an inn, the Turtledove, where we can rest a bit before pushing on.”
“Lord Wentworth.”
They all gazed upward at the trap.
“Was that Markson?” Papa frowned. “Why is he slowing?”
The carriage had gone from its goodly pace to a trot and now had slowed to a crawl. Elizabeth peered out the window, looking for a reason for the change in speed, but they were in a wooded area, and there was nothing to see. “Jemmy, I do not like this.”
Papa stood up and opened the trap. “What is going on, Markson?”
“It may be nothing, love.” Jemmy patted her hand, but his eyes had narrowed, and he glanced from side to side out the windows, obviously on alert.
“Is it highwaymen, Wentworth?” Mama’s tone held nothing but disgust. “They are usually not so bold in daylight. If it is, however, mark my words, they will rue the day they stopped my carriage.”
“Mama, hush.” Elizabeth grasped her mother’s hand and gave it a shake.
“Well, Markson, why have we stopped?” Papa sounded testy. Perhaps there wasn’t any danger, only an overturned carriage up ahead or a tree downed over the road.
Muted voices filtered down through the trap, then Papa lowered the trap and opened the door. “Of all the days in the year for a carriage to lose a wheel.” He clambered out and headed toward the front of the carriage.
Uttering a sigh of relief, Elizabeth closed her eyes. Delay she could accept, although she did long for a bed and a good nap at the Turtledove. She leaned against the carriage door, tempted to fall asleep here and now.
Suddenly, the door opened, and she was falling out into the cold, crisp air. Jemmy saved her, grasping her arm and hauling her back inside as a big, burly man, dressed in dark coat and pants, gold braid decorating the edges of the jacket, leered at her.
“Ahhhh,” she screamed, struggling toward the opposite side of the carriage.
“Damnation.” Jemmy shoved her into her startled mother and thrust his foot at the stranger, kicking him backward. He swung the door closed, then reached over to close the door Papa had left open. Before he could grab the handle, a similarly attired man grabbed his arm and hauled Jemmy out of the carriage.
Elizabeth shrieked and tried to follow him.
“Help! Help! Robbers! Thieves!” her mother screamed, to no avail, as the ruffian slammed the door shut.
“Go, Grieves,” he shouted up to someone on the coachman’s seat.
T
he carriage started with a thump, sending Elizabeth and her mother jouncing against the seats as the landau careened away.
Chapter 31
Cursing like a tavern brawler, Jemmy picked himself up from the frozen grass where he’d landed when the liveried ruffian had pulled him from the carriage.
“I demand to know who you are and where that carriage is taking my wife and daughter.” Lord Wentworth’s face hovered inches from one of the four black-and-gold-clad men.
“They’re likely bound for Black Tower, my father’s house in Regent Park,” Jemmy said, dusting himself off and hurrying to Wentworth’s side.
“Your father’s house?” A snarl on his lips, his lordship peered at the men.
“Yes, I recognized the livery as soon as they appeared. You”—Jemmy snapped his fingers and pointed at the nearest man—“did my father order this abduction?”
“Sorry, my lord.” The young man stood straight, fear in his eyes. “He ordered us to bring you to the house as quickly as possible. To get the ladies away first so you’d follow.”
“That certainly sounds like Father.”
“That’s Blackham, all right,” Wentworth echoed. “He has gone too far this time, Brack.”
“I agree, my lord.” Numb with an outrage he’d never before experienced, Jemmy’s whole body quivered. How dare his father abduct his bride? If this terrifying ordeal harmed her or the baby, his father would pay in the most horrific way possible. He would make an end to this for once and for all. “You!” He pointed at the servant again. “Father would know we’d need horses to go to Black Tower. Did you bring them with you?”
“No, my lord, but there is a carriage.” He indicated a conveyance off to the side of the road he’d not noticed in his rage.
“Very good. Lord Wentworth, we will follow them in this conveyance, and I promise you,” he said, clenching his fists until his nails dug into his palms, “it will end now.” They climbed into the carriage as the liveried men mounted their horses.
They jerked forward, and Jemmy began to seriously contemplate the possibility of patricide.
* * *
“Do not panic, Elizabeth.” Putting on her tone of righteous indignation, Mama was ready to do battle with whomever had orchestrated this outrage, be it the devil himself. “Whoever is behind this kidnapping has not taken into consideration who they are abducting. We will make them pay for this outrage to the fullest extent of the law.”
“I suspect it is Lord Blackham again, Mama.” Elizabeth sighed. She would have some sharp words to say to the marquess when next they met. “Who else would want to kidnap us?” She forced her words out calmly, despite the fact she was seething inside. How dare this tyrant abduct her—and her mother—and try to keep her from marrying Jemmy. Her mother might have a golden nugget or two to tell Lord Blackham, but she wouldn’t get the chance until Elizabeth had finished with him. If there was anything left.
The carriage wound back into London, quickly reaching a very fashionable area.
“This is Regent Park, my dear,” Mama peered out the window. “Perhaps your suspicion is correct. Blackham has a house on one of the terraces, as I remember. Part of his enticement for me to marry him was his listing of all his properties.” She sniffed. “Thought he could sway me from your father with the promise of material possessions. True love will trump that any time.”
“I certainly hope so, Mama.” Craning her neck, Elizabeth gazed back and forth at the tall, stately houses, built in the classical style that seemed to be preferred on the street they were now passing down.
“Remain steadfast, Elizabeth. No matter what Blackham may offer as an inducement to abandon Lord Brack, do not be tempted.” Mama nodded even as she looked back and forth at the splendid marble columns and stoops gracing all of the residences they were passing.
“I will hardly give Jemmy over with his child on the way, Mama. It will take more than a marble floor and a Regent Park address to make me give him up.” Elizabeth hung onto the strap grimly as the carriage turned a corner onto York Terrace. “Do you think Jemmy and Papa are following behind us?”
“Most likely.” Mama peered out the window, trying to see behind the carriage. “I cannot get a thing from this window, though. Oh.”
The carriage bumped to a stop.
“We seem to be here.” Thank goodness, it had taken no longer to arrive. All the excitement was extremely wearing on her these days.
The town house they had swept up to was imposing, if a trifle austere. Four smooth white marble columns framed the façade, a small portico carved with Greek statures. The house itself seemed to exude cold, and Elizabeth shivered at the thought of confronting Lord Blackham once more.
“If this is Blackham’s doing, he’s going to rue the day he interfered with my daughter’s life,” Mama huffed as she emerged from the carriage, assisted by another liveried servant.
“Yes, I suspect he will do a deal of ruing before the day is finished.” She glanced back the way they had come, hoping to spy another carriage or horses with Jemmy atop them. No such luck. Well, she’d give the marquess an earful for causing them all this bother.
The door to the mansion opened, revealing a tall, dignified butler who did not speak but motioned for them to enter.
“Cat got your tongue, my man?” Mama threw at him, never pausing as she strode inside.
With a doleful smile, the butler led them down a corridor, up a short flight of stairs, to a dark, forbidding door. The whole household was dim. Elizabeth couldn’t remember seeing more than two or three lamps or candles in the whole place at Blackham. Such dark-natured places always frightened her; however, anger sent fear flying out the window. She pushed the door open before the butler could make a move.
The chamber itself was as dark and gloomy as the corridor. A sullen fire burned in the grate, giving off indifferent heat. The wizened figure seated at the desk looked exactly the same as the one she’d met ten days before. A single difference in the man jarred Elizabeth, sending an icy trickle down her spine.
Lord Blackham was smiling.
She straightened her shoulders, drawing imaginary battle armor around her.
“Blackham, I demand to know what you have done with my husband.” Pushing past her, Mama sailed forward on a cloud of indignation. She didn’t stop until her feet almost touched the desk, and she towered over the marquess, staring at him like an avenging fury.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Lord Blackham sat back, his disconcerting smile widening. “You have aged gracefully, Lady Wentworth. I will give you that. You were a beauty as a girl and are beautiful still. I had hoped time would ravage you a bit more severely, but I confess I find now I am happy you have retained your looks.” He stared at Mama like a moonstruck boy.
“Little good flattery will do you, Blackham. After the hell you have dragged my daughter through, and now Wentworth and myself as well, you had better pray for divine grace and my sense of Christian charity to save you rather than weak flattery. Where is Wentworth?”
“He will be along shortly, never fear. I wanted a word with you, Amelia, before he arrives.” His lordship rose, his eyes still fixed on her mother. “Shall I ring for tea?”
“You can go to the devil for all I care, Blackham. I demand that you release me and my daughter this minute.” Mama’s eyes blazed, and Elizabeth feared she would resort to violence against the marquess.
“Come, Mama.” Elizabeth clutched her mother’s arm. “We will wait for Papa and Jemmy in the foyer. We need not speak more with his lordship.”
“Not so fast, Mrs. Easton.” Blackham peered at her as he came from behind his desk. “I have something to say to your mother. To you as well.” He headed for the sideboard and a glittering decanter of spirits.
“Then, for God’s sake, speak your piece, my lord, and let us be done.” Elizabeth’s nerves crackled, and she clutched her reticule in a death grip. This madness had to end.
“Does she know that her troubles with her ma
rriage to my son can be laid at your doorstep, Amelia?” He hefted the decanter and poured several inches into the glass. “Does she know she would have been a marquess’s daughter had you done your duty and married me?”
“Yes, my lord, I am afraid I do know that.” Elizabeth drew herself up to her full height and stared the man down. “I know, and I understand completely how my mother must have felt. If she was in love with someone else, she had a duty to follow her heart and marry the man she loved.”
“Pah.” Lord Blackham’s mouth twisted in disgust. “Romantic twaddle. Damn Lord Byron and all his ilk. They’ve ruined every woman with the ability to read.” He glared at Elizabeth. “Do you realize you will make my son miserable for the rest of his life if you marry him? It is not too late. If you will release him, he can still marry the daughter of a duke.”
“One that he does not love.” Defiance welled up in Elizabeth’s chest, and she glared at the marquess. “I rather see it that I am rescuing your son from a life of misery, to be fettered to a woman he would never love.”
“Just as you never loved his mother.” Mama thrust in that barb.
The marquess paled, then his brows lowered almost to his nose. “You have no right to speak of her.”
“I have every right. Louisa was my dearest friend. You married her to drive a wedge in our friendship, to keep her from ever seeing me again. And I never did, once she married you.” Mama’s chest heaved, and tears threatened. “But she wrote to me. Did you know that? You couldn’t keep her from doing that much.”
“I did forbid her to correspond with you. I didn’t want your sentimental claptrap to ruin our perfectly amicable agreement.” Blackham shrugged. “I found out eventually that she had written to you. Found your letters in her correspondence after her death, although I still have no idea how she accomplished it.” His smile flickered again. “She was a spirited woman. I enjoyed that about her. Fortunately, she valued the title marchioness far more than you ever did.” A long pull at his drink, and the glass stood empty.
“You married her to spite me. Because I wouldn’t have you.” Mama’s voice had risen to a shrill pitch, anger underscored with hurt. “So you struck at me by taking her away.” Her lips trembled. “She was so sweet, so good. You didn’t deserve her.”
