“Be still.”
The voice was harsh, low, and the command was reinforced by the prick of a knife point on the skin at her neck. She obeyed, fear running cold through her veins. Fighting was of no use if it got her hurt or worse.
Whoever it was that held her seemed practiced at subduing others, for, as she struggled to breathe, panic growing inside her, she felt the pressure of ropes being pulled around her, wound tightly. Soon, rope replaced the hand, forcing the cloth even tighter into her mouth as it did.
She fought then to prevent herself from retching, for that would surely lead to choking. As she did, she was lifted, scooped up like a sack, and carried a few short steps, before being unceremoniously dumped on a surface that moved. There was a lurch, and the sound of a latch clicking, then movement again. She had to assume that she was on the floor of a carriage of some sort.
She listened, wondering where they went, but learned very little. After some time, the rumble of cobbles beneath the wheels was replaced by the softer sounds of gravel and packed earth. The noise of the London streets died away, to be replaced by the quiet of parkland or countryside. Birdsong came to her, peaceful, beautiful – and a contrast so great to her situation that she would have laughed at the dark humour of it, had she had the breath to do so.
Twice, there was the echoing rumble as they crossed a bridge, then quiet again. When she had begun to wonder if they would continue all day, the movement changed, the carriage slowing, followed by a sharp turn, which caused her to slide across the floor, striking her head on the hard edge of what must be the seat. The world went grey, and she fought to stay conscious, the lack of air working against her.
Just as the world stopped spinning, she felt a shock of air upon her ankles – the door had been opened.
She was unceremoniously dragged from the carriage, and lifted. The mildly hysterical thought struck her, that perhaps it was not a good thing that she had shed so much weight this last year – if she had been heavier, perhaps the scoundrel who held her would not have had so easy a job of it. A few awkward minutes saw her carried through a door, and into what sounded like a largish building. The floors were bare, for her captor’s steps echoed sharply, and what air reached her through the cloth smelt faintly of must and age. Finally, they stopped. She was lowered to her feet, and then pushed down – onto a chair of some sort, it seemed.
“I am going to remove the rope from your mouth, at least, so that you can answer my questions.”
That voice… she was sure of it, now that it spoke a full sentence. It was Charteris. Anger rose in her, to go with the fear. Anger with herself, for being careless enough to be captured, as much as anything else. There was a moment of pulling and tugging about her head, rocking it back and forth, and then the terrible pressure eased. She spat the cloth out of her mouth. It still covered her head, so she could not see the man, but at least she could breathe. The cloth stank of saddle oil, and tickled her with horse hairs, but it could have been far worse.
“Now – tell me why you have been prying into others’ lives, into places you have no right or reason to poke your nose. What do you hope to gain?”
Anna considered carefully. She would start with outright denial, and refuse to answer as much as she could. The longer she could keep him unsure of what she knew, the safer she was. And perhaps… Lord Setford might find her? She suppressed the half hysterical laugh that tried to escape her.
She was a fool if she thought a man would magically come rushing in to save her. It was up to her to save herself, if she could.
“I don’t know what you mean. I’ll admit I gossip – doesn’t every woman? And for there to be gossip, we all have to be looking for things to gossip about. But it’s no more nor less than that.”
“I am quite sure it’s far more than that. A woman who asks more questions about a man’s men friends than about his lights o’ love is not a normal gossip – unless you’ve come by the delusion that we’re a nest of mollies, and you’d hoped to reveal the scandal. Cruel, if that’s the case, for doing so would send us to our deaths, but I’m sorry to disappoint you, we are all far more interested in women. I’m sure I could make that quite evident to you, if necessary.”
He laughed, and the laugh had an edge to it – an edge that spoke to Anna of danger, and perhaps of a man who was no longer quite completely rational.
“I believe that I will take your word for it.”
“You surprise me. You don’t seem to have taken anything else as presented to you. You’ve been very busy, suborning staff, and asking intrusive questions. Why? What do you expect to gain?”
“Gossip. Nothing more.”
“Perhaps I should leave you here, as you are, until tomorrow. That will give you time to consider the wisdom of your lies. And while you are here, you can’t get up to any other mischief.”
Anna almost shuddered, but she forced herself to be still. She did not want to be left alone, bound and blindfolded, in an unknown location. Yet… she did not wish to be in this man’s presence any longer than necessary. She would be safer if he left her here. At least then she could attempt to free herself.
“Nothing to say to that, my Lady? Well then, so be it. You may contemplate the wisdom – or lack thereof – of your stubbornness overnight. I will see you on the morrow.”
His footsteps moved away, a door opened and closed, and there was the distinct click of a key turning in a lock. Anna simply sat, unmoving, listening as carefully as she could, until, faintly, she heard the sound of the carriage wheels on what must be a gravelled area near the gate they had turned in through.
Once she was sure he was gone, she began to explore the possibilities of escape. Carefully, she rose to her feet – at least he had not bound her ankles, although the rope did wind as far as her thighs. She moved towards where she thought the door to be, based on the sounds of his exit. One careful sliding step at a time, she kept going until she collided with something solid. She wobbled, but stayed standing.
She leant her forehead against the door (or wall - whichever it was) and moved it, seeing if she could catch the cloth on anything, and make it move. It shifted – apparently it did not go far enough down past her neck to be caught hard by the ropes around her. She moved, rubbing her head against the wall and door in a manner that must, should anyone have been there to see it, have looked ludicrous – but it caused the cloth to move, more and more. Finally, she took a risk. She stepped back two steps from the wall, and bent slowly forward, tipping her head down.
The cloth slipped. She shook her head gently, afraid that too much movement would make her fall. The cloth slid further, then stopped, caught on the knot of her hair where it was pinned up. She bent further, and gently shook her head again. She wobbled violently, unstable and disoriented, but the wobble was all that was needed. The cloth slid free of her hair, and dropped to the floor.
Slowly, carefully, Anna brought herself back to upright, stepped forward, and simply crumpled against the door, sucking in great gasps of clear air. When she no longer felt light headed, she turned her back to the door, and studied the room she found herself in.
Chapter Eleven
Cecil went up the steps to Lady Farnsworth’s door, well satisfied with his morning. He carried more books for the charity girls, and the thought that the following day should bring the closure of these months of watching the conspirators lifted his spirits. He rapped the knocker on the door, hearing the echo of its sound in the foyer of the house. A short while later, the door was opened.
“Good morning, Jenks. Is Lady Farnsworth in?”
“Good morning Lord Setford. I am afraid that she is out. I am not certain when she’ll return.”
Cecil frowned, wondering where she might be. She had, he thought, meant to visit the maid at Charteris’ residence again – this day, or the previous one. He had expected her to be here, to tell him what she’d discovered. Still, perhaps she had gone to Ebury Street, to see the girls, to gather their latest reports. He
could as easily speak to her there, and give the books directly to Mary and Rose.
“I see. Well, tell her I called, if you would.”
“Of course, my Lord.”
Jenks bowed, Cecil nodded his thanks and turned to go. A little nagging edge of worry settled into him, but he pushed it aside – there was no reason to think that anything was amiss – he had no right or reason to know every movement that Lady Farnsworth made, after all.
As his carriage bumped through the cobbled streets, the sense of wrongness wouldn’t leave him. He forced it aside.
At the Ebury Street house, he listened again to the echoes of his knock and the footsteps of the man who answered it.
“Good day Dobbs, would Lady Farnsworth happen to be here at present?”
“Good day Lord Setford. I am afraid that she isn’t here – we haven’t seen her for two days now.”
“Oh.” The nagging worry became larger. “Is Mary or Rose here? I have a parcel for them.”
“Mary is, my Lord, she is just attempting to get Sylvie to take a nap.”
The butler’s expression made it clear that getting Sylvie to nap was a challenging undertaking.
“I won’t interrupt her then. Please give her this once she has a chance to escape the challenges of childcare.”
“Certainly, my Lord. If this is, as it feels like, more books, I know that everyone will be delighted.”
“I’m glad they enjoy them. If Lady Farnsworth should come past, please let her know that I was here.”
“Of course, my Lord.”
Cecil went back to his carriage, his steps slow, and his mind running at lightning speed. He could not ignore his instincts – something was wrong. He directed his coachman to take him back to Lady Farnsworth’s home.
He could not imagine any reason that she might have gone out, early in the day, and not returned by now – it was most unlike her. He was certain that she had been expecting him, and she had never before been absent when he had called. A moment of dark humour twisted his lips in a smile – was he being vain, to think that she might actually care for him, enough to make sure that she was there when he called? Probably – yet he did, very much, hope that she cared for him, far beyond duty to Crown and Country. He wanted to make this courtship much more than a fiction, as soon as he possibly could. Or at least to discover if she could accept that, or if he was nurturing false hope.
Jenks opened the door and looked at him, puzzled.
“Jenks, I’d like to come in, if I may.”
Jenks moved to the side, waving him into the house.
“What can we do for you, my Lord?”
“Has Lady Farnsworth returned?”
“No, my Lord.”
“Might I speak to the other staff, to ascertain if anyone knew her plans for the day?”
“Of course. This way please.”
They set off down the hallway towards the rear of the house.
As they traversed the short hallway which led to the servants’ parlour and the kitchen, the sound of agitated voices reached them. Cecil strode into the kitchen, following the sound.
“What is this uproar about?”
Sudden silence followed his words. A man in coachman’s livery – Fred, he thought the name was, if he remembered his intelligence on the house correctly – turned towards him, his face twisted with worry.
“My Lord. It’s my Lady. I took her to where she asked, a few blocks from that Lord Charteris’ house, and let her down there. She said I was to wait about the close area, but not go nearer Charteris’ place. She was going to see some maid who worked for him. Said she might be an hour or two before she came back to me. She’s very reliable, Lady Farnsworth – always does what she says, and polite about it – so I just settled in for a bit of a wander and a gossip with some of the jarveys thereabouts. But she never came back. It’s been five hours or more, my Lord. What should I do? I’d never forgive meself if anything’s happened to her, when I was supposed to be with her!”
Cecil felt himself slip into that cold calculating state that came with danger, the state in which fear was pushed into the background, to be dealt with later. The state that the Hounds assured him came to most men in battle. He could not let himself consider the danger she might be in – all of his focus had to be on finding her.
“Jenks, bring me pen and paper. And a reliable man to run messages. Fred – sit down. You are going to tell me every little thing you can remember about the events of the day.”
The Cook silently provided two chairs, and cleared space on the big kitchen table for him. Within a short while, he had sent messages to a number of his men, directing them to watch Lord Charteris’ house, and to begin a search for any sign of Lady Farnsworth. Fred, unfortunately, remembered nothing of use, nothing out of the ordinary, beyond that Lady Farnsworth had dressed in garb better suited to a servant than a Lady. He could provide the exact location where he had let her down, but nothing more – she had slipped into the lanes which ran behind the grand houses, and disappeared from his sight – just another drably dressed woman amongst the throng of servants going about their morning business.
Though it galled him, Cecil recognised that he could not move on Charteris. He could not go to that house, could not attempt to speak to the maid – for with twenty-four hours to go until the meeting of the conspirators, he could not risk making them aware that they were watched. Everything would have to be indirect. He sat, staring unseeingly at the kitchen before him, and thought. He drank the coffee that Cook put before him, almost unaware of doing so, and planned.
“Fred, take the carriage, and go back to where you were waiting. If she has a chance to return, let us hope that is where she’ll go first. There are reasons that I am worried – reasons I can’t explain to any of you. And for those same reasons, whilst I know that she had intended to speak to one of the maids at Charteris’, and why, I cannot simply go there and enquire. I am going to go and arrange someone who can go to Charteris’ house and not be in any way seen as out of place, and send them to investigate.”
“What should we do, my Lord?”
“Wait. But if she returns, or if anyone comes here, looking for me, send a message to Bigglesworth’s Books, I’ll write down the direction for you.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Cecil stood, and forced himself to move with his usual considered, unhurried grace. It was beyond hard, for he had never, in his life, wanted so very much to run. He went to his carriage, and directed his coachman to take him back to Ebury Street. The man raised an eyebrow, but said nothing – many years in Cecil’s employ had taught him that there was a good reason for everything, no matter how strange it seemed.
~~~~~
Polly looked up from where she and Mary were playing with the children on the floor, startled when Dobbs announced that Lord Setford was there, and that he had asked to speak to her. She rose, and left Mary with the children, stepping out into the hall.
“Good day Polly. I am sorry to interrupt you, but I have a rather urgent request to make of you.”
“Of me, Lord Setford? What can I possibly do to help you?”
“You have, I believe, a cousin who works in Lord Charteris’ house?”
“Yes, my Lord. Meg’s her name. She’s not too happy with the place – I’m trying to convince her to leave, before she gets hurt. Is she in trouble? Lady Farnsworth asked me about her, just a week or so ago.”
“She’s not in trouble, that I know of. But Lady Farnsworth may be. She went, this morning, to see Meg, and she hasn’t come back. She never came back to her carriage. I am concerned, but, for reasons associated with the men we have been investigating…” Polly gave a little nod, worry filling her face, “…I cannot simply go to Lord Charteris’ house and ask. The only way I have to discover if Lady Farnsworth even reached that house and spoke to Meg, and what may have happened then, is to ask you to go there, to ‘visit your cousin’. Will you do that for us Polly?”
“Of course I w
ill my Lord. Anything to help Lady Farnsworth, after all she’s done for us!”
“You must understand, Polly, this may be dangerous. I will have men watching the house, they are on their way there now, but I don’t know what has happened, what sort of situation you may find. We need to discover whatever we can about Lady Farnsworth’s visit there – anyone who saw her, especially anyone who saw her leave.”
“I won’t lie, my Lord, I’m scared, but I’ll do it. Just knowing that you will have men watching the place will make me feel safer.”
“Thank you.”
Cecil had never said such heartfelt words in his life.
~~~~~
Cecil had been to Bigglesworth’s, checked for messages, and arranged for any that arrived to be sent to him at Ebury street.
The fact that no-one had anything to report yet left him chilled, the fear pushing itself towards the surface, despite his intentional calm. What if she had been hurt? What might those men do to her, if they could contemplate a treasonous assassination? What would he do, if he lost her? That was, in the end, the most significant question. In the time he spent at Bigglesworth’s, he stood in his upstairs office, staring out across the rooftops, and examined his feelings. Emotional involvement was a vulnerability – he needed to know where his own heart lay, to know how he would respond, in any circumstance that might arise. His duty demanded no less.
When he laid it out before himself in those terms, everything seemed crystal clear. As he had thought, not so long ago, he wanted to marry her. It was not, in any way, a calculated or unemotional decision. He wanted to marry her because he had come to love her. It was that utterly simple, and that utterly complicated, at once. He would find her, no matter what it took. And if it took him away from the capture of the conspirators? So be it. His men were good, and they would do as planned, which should, he hoped be enough – for he had the most terrifying suspicion that, should he be forced into a position where he had to choose between keeping Anna Trubridge alive, or keeping the Prince Regent alive, then his choice would not be Crown and Country, though that would be a choice deemed treason. It was not a situation he ever wanted to face – but he acknowledged that it might, indeed, come to that.
Attracting the Spymaster: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 15) Page 8
