Love Stories of Enchanting Ladies: A Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Bridget Barton

  “Good Morning, Your Grace. I have your chocolate and some of the seed cake from yesterday.”

  “Thank you, Abigail. Will you see to my riding habit? I believe I’d like to try that new filly, Belle. You’ll ask Jimmy to get her ready for me, will you?”

  “Why of course, Your Grace.” Abigail went to the clothes press and searched for Phoebe’s new riding frock. “Here we are. Would Your Grace like your hair curled or in braids this morning?”

  “I think braids. They can be wound around my head. My hair stays out of my eyes that way.”

  “And I daresay, the braids are a good anchor for this little bonnet.”

  “Right you are, Abby.” Phoebe smiled and had a sip of chocolate. “Oh delicious. Did you make this chocolate, Abby?”

  “Yes. Your Grace.”

  “It’s so thick and creamy. It’s wonderful.”

  “It’s made in the Spanish style, Your Grace.”

  “However did you learn to make it?”

  “My grandmother is from Barcelona, Your Grace.”

  “So do you speak the language of Spain?”

  “Si, Excelensia.”

  Phoebe clapped her hands. “Will you teach me, Abby? I would so love to learn to speak Spanish.”

  “Yes, Your Grace, I would be happy to.”

  “Wonderful. After my ride, I’ll consult with you about lessons. Maybe we can do them here when I rise in the morning. If you only spoke Spanish to me, I’d eventually begin to understand. La! I look forward to it.”

  “I look forward to it as well, Your Grace.”

  Phoebe finished her chocolate and got out of the huge bed. Robert had left some time ago, and there was a single pink rose on the pillow next to hers.

  She smiled. Married life suited Phoebe very well. The only missing element was the child she wanted to bring into the world of love that she and Robert had created. She knew it would be soon enough. She might as well go riding in the park when she had the chance.

  “Your Grace, the bath is ready.”

  Phoebe moved over to the fireplace, shedding her chemise as she did. The water smelled of lavender and roses, and indeed, Abby had strewn the surface of the water with petals from the flowers.

  Abby held Phoebe’s hand to assist her as she stepped into the big copper tub, another present from her husband.

  Phoebe slid down into the fragrant steam up to her neck. She breathed deeply. “This is Heavenly, Abby.”

  “I’m happy that Your Grace is pleased. I will give you some privacy to bathe, Your Grace. Please ring me if you need anything. It’s the same bell your former maid had. Otherwise, I shall be back in thirty minutes or so.”

  “Very good, Abby.”

  “Your Grace.” Abby bowed her head and exited the room.

  Phoebe closed her eyes and felt any residual tension melt from her neck and shoulders. Finally, things were getting back to normal. There were the happy moments, days and hours. The last year had been full of surprises and changes. Most of the surprises were happy ones. Phoebe didn’t want to think about the others.

  She heard the door open quietly. “Abby, has it been thirty minutes already?”

  Hearing nothing else, she opened her eyes. Before she knew what was happening, her mouth was covered. The touch of a blade rested at her throat. A harsh whisper came to her ear.

  “Stand up.” Two arms reached under her armpits and lifted her from the water. “Do not make a sound or you die. Your little maid is tied up,” the voice broke into rusty laughter, “in the kitchen. You will bleed to death before anyone makes it to the top of the stairs.”

  Phoebe’s eyes were wide with fear. As far as she could tell, there were two individuals in the chamber with her. A dark piece of fabric had been tied around her eyes.

  “Grab the riding dress and whatever else is there on the bed. Step into these slippers. Your Grace, I’m talking to you.”

  Phoebe felt a chemise fall over her body, and her light pelisse was thrown across her shoulders. She was yanked forward and pulled into the corridor. The interlopers guided her to the end of the hall and down the forgotten stairs.

  Years before, the first Duke had done renovations at Hempstead Hall. He’d had new servants’ stairs put in due to the kitchen having been moved.

  The stairs Phoebe was on had not been used in decades. In fact, the previous week, Robert had mentioned they should be blocked off from the house and the door at the bottom sealed. The small side door, set far back on the outer wall of the main house, opened almost directly into the wilderness behind the house. Beyond that there was an overgrown road, no longer used.

  Phoebe was propelled forward, small branches and twigs catching the front of her chemise. She stumbled, not knowing where she was or where she was going.

  The jangling of a harness came to her ears, then the smell of leather, wood, and horseflesh. A rusty hinge squealed as the door to a coach was pried open. Phoebe was thrust inside a mouldy smelling interior, and one of the perpetrators tied her wrists together behind her back. Something brushed past her and fell to the floor with a clanging sound.

  “Remember ... you make a sound, you die.” The speaker’s voice faded, but Phoebe knew she was not alone inside the coach.

  The door slammed shut, and within minutes they were meandering down the country road behind Hempstead Hall. Once the party reached the road to London, the horses were let to gallop at a frightening pace.

  The coach swayed side to side. Phoebe rested on the floor, unable to lift herself to a seat. Once, she almost succeeded. A booted foot pushed into her shoulder and sent her crashing back to the bottom of the vehicle and unconsciousness.

  Chapter 16

  Atwater strode into the house through the servants’ area. He was moving past the open door of the servants’ hall when something caught his eye. He glanced into the room, stopped in his tracks, and then rushed in.

  “Abigail?” He patted the girl’s cheek. She had blood on her forehead and had been tied to the chair she sat upon.

  Atwater looked at the wall bells and rang for Terence. He began to untie Abby.

  The butler arrived in two minutes, slightly dishevelled. “Your Grace. Forgive me. I was taking advantage of the opportunity to have a short nap. My head feels entirely wobbly.” He squinted his eyes then opened them wide. “Dear God, Miss Abigail. Your Grace, have you been hurt in any way? What has happened?”

  “I don’t know, Terence? What time did you go for your nap?”

  “Just after you left for your ride, Your Grace.”

  The Duke reached for his watch. “It’s close to one o’clock. I left at nine thirty.”

  Abby groaned. Her eyes fluttered, and it took a moment for her to gain her equilibrium. “Oh. Your Grace. My head.” The girl seemed to lose consciousness once more.

  “Abigail, Abby.” Atwater frowned then ran back outside calling for Jimmy.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Jimmy, ride into the village. Take Roy. Go as fast as you can. Tell the doctor we need him here straightaway.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  The Duke went back inside. Terence was on his knee at Abby’s side. He was gently mopping her brow with a wet cloth. Atwater gasped. Phoebe. There had obviously been some kind of invasion at Hempstead. Terence had clearly been drugged. And Abby. She’d been hit over the head. With something heavy. What would Atwater find after he took the stairs two at a time to the third floor of the house?

  “Phoebe?” He began calling her as soon as he hit the landing. “Phoebe.”

  He ran down the corridor and entered his bedchamber. He went through the adjoining hallway between his and Phoebe’s rooms.

  He stood in the doorway and leaned against it, begging some strength from the wood that supported him.

  “Robert!” Tom ran into the chamber and into the short corridor behind Atwater. “I came by to see if you and Phoebe cared to have a game of cards later. What has happened?”

  “I … I don’t know.
The copper tub. It’s empty, there was water. But, Phoebe is nowhere. It appears they took the forgotten stairs.”

  “You mean Phoebe? Robert, come downstairs.” Tom’s eyes took in the water splashed all over the floor near the tub. The drops led out of the room into the main hallway. “We must talk to Abigail and Terence.” He took Atwater’s arm and pulled him along.

  They entered the servants’ hall. Terence had gone out to the herb garden and found Mrs Crabtree. She’d put Abby in her own bed in her rooms off the kitchen. Mrs Crabtree looked at Tom with worried eyes.

  “I do not know what happened, My Lord.” She spoke to Tom. Atwater sat at the long table as if in a daze.

  “I came here to see if His Grace would enjoy cards tonight. And I walk into this. Her Grace is nowhere to be found. And Terence and Abby.”

  “The girl took quite a bump to the head, My Lord.” Mrs Crabtree shook her head with the disbelief of those who cannot fathom something that has transpired. Something that has shattered the otherwise normally calm and happy environment she was accustomed to.

  “My apologies, Mrs Crabtree, but I sent Jimmy for the doctor. My mind was in a tizzy ... I forgot all about your herbal knowledge.”

  “Your Grace ... you have no need to apologize to me for anything. The doctor will know better than I what Abby’s injury is. When I know what the poor thing is battling, then I can bring my herbs and infusions forward. I hope the doctor comes soon. Abby is the only one who saw ... whoever ... or whatever was here, Your Grace.”

  “There is silver missing, Your Grace. The everyday silver that’s not locked up. It’s gone.”

  “This does not make sense. If they wanted to steal silver, why go to the trouble of injuring Abby, drugging Terence, and presumably abducting Duchess Atwater.” Tom looked around.

  “Mrs Crabtree, Terence, may I go upstairs and examine Her Grace’s bedchamber and the path the perpetrators took?”

  “Of course, of course. Terence, do you have an objection?”

  “No, My Lord. Might I assist you?”

  “Do you feel up to it?”

  “Yes, My Lord. I want to help.”

  “Very well then. Mrs Crabtree, you’ll see to the doctor?”

  “I will, My Lord.”

  “And you’ll take care of His Grace?”

  “It goes without saying, My Lord.”

  “Now, the first question, Terence, is how did they get in?”

  “If they went out through the forgotten door, My Lord, they most likely came in that way.”

  “So that door opens from outside almost directly into the staircase?”

  “It does, My Lord.”

  “Let us go up the servants’ stairs.”

  There were two doors on each landing of the stairs that led to the floors beyond. One door led to the front of the house, the other the rear.

  Atwater’s and Phoebe’s bedchambers were in the rear.

  Tom and Terence emerged onto the third floor. At a right angle to the rear third floor door stood the entry into the forgotten stairs. The door was slightly ajar.

  Tom turned to the left and crossed the hall to the open door of Phoebe’s bedchamber. He stepped inside the room. Small puddles of water stood on the floor around the copper tub. Still silent, Tom walked out the open door. A mere ten feet to the left, he again viewed the cracked door of the forgotten stairs.

  He walked toward it and pushed it open. There were more little splashes of water littering the steps. “Terence, do you have a candle? It’s almost pitch dark in here. Whoever was here had a candle or knew their way around.”

  Terence fished in his vest pocket for a bit of a candle. In a moment, the two men had some slight illumination as they made their way to the forgotten door.

  Terence pushed the door open. Fifteen feet through an overgrown thicket, the edge of the wilderness began.

  Tom looked around at the ground. Broken twigs and scuffed over dead plants met his eyes. “It’s very difficult to tell if anything happened here. Her Grace was most definitely brought out through the forgotten door.” As he spoke, Tom had been looking hard at the earth. Something glinting in the sun drew his attention. He went closer and stooped down to examine what it could be.

  He became deathly cold, and he reached out to the shining object and lifted it in his fingers. A band of fine gold came to him. A wedding band. Tom knew who it belonged to. Phoebe had definitely been brought this way. She must have dropped the ring before they tried to steal it.

  “Let us go back and share this discovery with His Grace.” Tom showed the golden band to Terence who nodded sombrely.

  *******

  Phoebe woke up in a very dark room. Every bone in her body ached as she tried to make sense of where she was. The floor was hard packed dirt. It was cold, and there was a general odour of rot and mildew. Her head pounded and began to ache as memory came back to her.

  Her eyes adjusted slowly to the almost complete absence of light. There seemed to be a window up by the ceiling that had been long ago boarded over. A thin sliver of daylight fought to shine through to illuminate the foul room Phoebe had been left in.

  Her hands had been untied, she knew better than to scream. She had to remain calm or she would not get out of this place alive. This place. Where was she? She looked around.

  There was a light coverlet near where she lay that had more rents and tears than fabric. An old bucket stood in the corner, presumably to relieve herself in. She felt her stomach lurch and propel its contents upward. Half stumbling, half crawling, she barely made it to the corner and heaved into the bucket. Panting, she sat back against the stone wall wiping her mouth with her hand. Water seeped through the rocks wetting the back of her pellisse. She realized she wasn’t dressed. The details of the morning swam in and out of her consciousness.

  Phoebe closed her eyes and sighed. What was happening? Who had brought her here? And why? She opened her eyes. A rat stood motionless on four little feet the colour of mushrooms. Its shiny bead-like eyes stared at her defiantly.

  *******

  Tom and Terence entered the servants’ hall. Atwater still sat at the table as if in a trance. The doctor was discussing Abby’s condition with Mrs Crabtree.

  “Excuse me, Mrs Crabtree. Doctor. We have reason to believe Duchess Atwater has been abducted.”

  “Abducted. Oh, Dear Lord.” Mrs Crabtree said a quick prayer under her breath.

  “What can I do?” the doctor offered.

  “Well, first I would ask that you keep this incident to yourself until we get some idea of what’s going on. If Her Grace has indeed been kidnapped, we ... or rather, His Grace will hear from the culprits. Speculation in the papers and within the ton is to be avoided at all costs. Do I have your word as a gentleman, Doctor?”

  “You do. Of course, My Lord.”

  “What is the condition of Abigail?”

  “She will be good as new in a few days; however, she should rest as much as possible until then. She took quite the hit to the head. Mrs Crabtree has come up with a treatment plan.” The good doctor smiled at the elderly widow causing her to blush.