Within minutes, Annabelle and Luke were placed in a sparsely furnished chamber. She worked at Luke’s bonds and finally freed his hands. He rubbed his wrists and his shoulders trying to restore normal circulation. Then he simply opened his arms and they clung to each other for a few minutes.
“I am so sorry, Luke.”
“For what? This is not your doing. And don’t worry. We shall get out of this. You shall see. Thorne will—”
“Shh.” She put her fingers on his lips to stop the flow of words. “It will be a long while before Thome—or Marcus—even knows we are missing. Meanwhile, we must try to help ourselves.”
They explored the room, but found little beyond what they had seen on first entering. There was a bed with rumpled bedclothes on it, an empty armoire, two threadbare upholstered chairs, a table with a lamp, and—be—hind a screen in the corner—a washstand with a chamber pot in the cupboard beneath it. When Annabelle drew the drapery aside, she found that the only window had narrowly spaced bars on it.
“I daresay this room has served this purpose before,” she noted, sinking into one of the chairs.
Luke stretched out on the bed. “You are probably right. I wonder if anyone ever escaped from it?”
There was a sound at the door. Luke jumped up and stood near it. The door opened just enough so that Chet could hand in a tray. “Here, take this,” he said curtly to Luke, then closed the door and they heard the lock fall firmly into place again.
Luke set the tray on the table with a flourish. “Your luncheon is served, my lady. We have here the finest English cheese, a very tasty-looking country bread, some apples, and—marvel of marvels—tea! When was the last time you had such an elegant meal?”
Annabelle laughed. “Do stop . . . I think I last enjoyed just such fare when I was being punished at school.”
“We shall enjoy our repast first and then put our heads together to try to figure a way out of this mess.”
Annabelle nodded regally.
It was midmorning and Thorne sat at his desk in the library going over a report on “The Lives of Children of the Streets.” The report dealt with abandoned children and the so-called “flash houses” in which they frequently spent their days. Supposedly compassionately run havens for Society’s least fortunate, these institutions were very often little more than schools for thievery and every other debauchery known to mankind. Thorne intended to lend his support to legislation regulating such places.
Perkins interrupted him with news of a visitor. It was Marcus Jeffries, Earl of Wyndham.
Thorne greeted his guest cordially. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“I am not sure it will be a pleasure.” Wyndham sounded grim. “Annabelle is missing. She went riding this morning as she usually does. She told Harriet last night she would be meeting Luke. It has been almost four hours now. So, I’ve come to see if Luke has any idea where she might be. Neither the groom nor their horses have returned. After that business at the Mayor’s ball—”
With Wyndham’s first words, Thorne felt a very cold, very strong fist clutch at his heart. He jerked open the library door and sent a footman in the hall to look for Luke. He invited Wyndham to sit. The footman came back to say Luke had not returned from his morning ride and his manservant did not know of his plans. Thorne sent him to the stable and he came back shortly with news that Luke’s favorite mount was missing, too.
“Something is very, very wrong,” Thorne said. “Luke is shatterbrained at times, but not to this extent.”
“I doubt Annabelle would go off like this of her own free will,” Marcus said.
“Well, the place to start, I suppose, is the park. We could use some help. I will take two of my fellows and send word to Hart as well.” Thorne had begun thinking immediately in terms of military strategy and logistics.
“I was hoping it would be a simpler matter,” Marcus said.
Thorne knew instantly what the other man’s worry was. “My fellows will keep their mouths shut and Hart is the soul of discretion. Her reputation will be protected.”
“Very well.”
Twenty minutes later, the two earls and three other men were in the park, tracing the route Annabelle and Luke would most likely have taken. Unfortunately, their search was hampered by two factors. They hardly knew what to look for, and the park at this hour was filling up with fashionable fribbles out to see and be seen.
After a few minutes, Thorne said, “It was here that Annabelle’s horse panicked that day.”
“A fellow with a slingshot could have easily hidden in that copse,” Marcus pointed out.
“Yes. You two,” Thorne said to his servants, “go in there and look around.”
Hart had dismounted to examine the grassy verge of the riding lane. “Major—uh, sorry, Thorne. Something happened here. Look at the way this turf is scuffed up.”
“Hart often served as a scout in the army,” Thorne explained to Marcus even as his eyes swept over the area. He spotted something dark lying in the grass. “What is that?”
Marcus, moving more quickly than Thorne, rushed over to pick it up. “Annabelle’s hat,” he called.
One of the men Thorne had sent into the copse came riding out in a hurry. “My lord, there’s something you should see.”
The three of them followed the man into the dense thicket of trees and undergrowth.
“Annabelle’s mare,” Marcus said.
“And Luke’s mount,” Thorne said.
The two horses were tied to a bush, along with another that Marcus also identified as being from his stable.
“These animals did not arrive here on their own,” Hart observed dryly. “Let’s have a look around.”
Moments later, one of the Rolsbury men called, “Over here.”
They found the Wyndham groom who had accompanied Annabelle bound and gagged, leaning against a tree. He looked at them with obvious relief; Thorne noticed that his hands and wrists were raw and bleeding from his having rubbed them against the bark of the tree in an effort to free himself.
They soon had as much information as the groom, Jamie, could supply. There had been four ruffians and a coachman in a nondescript black carriage. They had eliminated Jamie first. Then two of them stayed behind to hide the horses and Jamie.
“Don’t know what they was gonna do with me,” Jamie said, his fear readily apparent, “but they was comin’ back tonight for the horses. Couldn’t take ’em earlier ‘cause someone might reco’nize the horses.”
“That makes sense,” Thorne mused aloud. “Horseflesh like this would sell very well.”
He conferred with Marcus and Hart beneath the canopy of trees. The two Rolsbury servants would be joined by two others to await the return of the miscreants, for these two were, at the moment, the only known tie to whoever was behind all this.
“Though I have a fairly good idea who it is,” Marcus said in bitter disgust. “Beelson.”
“His aim must be to compromise or ransom Annabelle—but why would he take Luke, too?” Hart asked.
“It was probably a case of Luke’s being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Thorne said. “However, Beelson would not be averse to using Luke for revenge.”
“Revenge?” Marcus and Hart spoke together.
Thorne explained briefly, being careful not to mention that the woman Beelson had sought to ruin was Catherine.
“The question now is where would he take them?” Hart asked.
Marcus answered, “He probably wants to take her to Gretna Green—or to Paris. Many eloping couples go there now.”
“ ’Tis my guess,” Thorne said, “that he will hide them away for at least this day to throw off pursuit.”
“But where?” Hart asked. “We three cannot search the whole of southern England.”
“Perhaps we can narrow it down,” Thorne answered. “Surely some of those ne’er-do-wells that Beelson hangs out with would have an idea where he would take a ladybird.”
Marcus ki
cked at the leaves beneath his feet. “Even if we find her before morning, I fear the damage to Annabelle’s reputation will be irreparable.”
“Maybe not,” Thorne said. Again, he took charge. “I have something I want to check out, but you two could go and ask around the clubs for the information we seek. Enlist the aid of Winters. He is trustworthy.”
“So is Stimson,” Marcus said and Hart nodded.
Thorne accepted their judgment. “Meet me at my house no later than three. That will give us a good five or six hours of daylight for the search if we get a good lead.”
Thorne went directly to the heart of the city—to the Court of Arches in Doctors Commons near St. Paul’s Cathedral. His business there took him slightly longer than he had anticipated. He stopped in at Lady Conwick’s town house to ask for the direction of George Ferris whose mother was one of Aunt Dorothy’s friends.
“George Ferris? What would you be wanting with him?” his forthright aunt asked.
“I have no time to explain now, Aunt Dorothy. Suffice it to say, it is a matter of some urgency.”
She quickly supplied the information. Soon he was being ushered into the Ferris drawing room. Mrs. Ferris replied in a tone of apprehension and suspicion.
“What do you want with my son?”
“Merely some information, madam. I believe he can help me resolve a difficult problem.”
“That fellow Stimson said the same thing. Well, I shall tell you what I told him. Georgie rarely tells me where he is going, but I think he usually spends his day at one of those gentlemen’s clubs.”
“Which one?”
She shrugged. “Whites? Boodles? Maybe Watier’s. No—wait. I think it is Brooks. Oh, dear. I told that nice Stimson lad it was Boodles.”
It was neither. It was Watier’s where Thorne found that Stimson had already tracked down their quarry. Stimson had Ferris closeted in a small room provided by the club for truly private discussions.
Ferris looked up as Thorne entered the room, his eyes widening in surprise, then apprehension.
“Have you found anything of interest?” Thorne asked Stimson.
“Not yet. But neither have I yet put any of Gentleman Jackson’s effective lessons to the test.”
Ferris’s nervousness increased even more at mention of the famous boxer. “N-now—look—I want no t-trouble.”
“Nor do we.” Thorne’s voice was cold and hard. “But I shall guarantee you extreme discomfort on every level if you do not supply the information we seek.”
Ferris shifted, in obvious discomfort already, and whined, “I don’t know how I could be of any help to you.”
“Ferris, I swear—you will not be able to step into a respectable club in this town,” Thorne threatened.
“So answer the question I put to you earlier.” Stimson waved his clenched fist under Ferris’s nose.
“I—I don’t know anything about Beelson’s current ladybirds. He has talked a lot of late about renewing his suit with Miss Richardson—said she would welcome him when he was through.” Ferris looked crafty. “I say, does this have anything to do with Miss Richardson? I have not seen her around lately. Or did Ralph make the mistake of poaching in your territory?” He looked from one to the other of his interrogators.
Stimson drew back his fist. Ferris threw up his hands in front of his face. “Hold on. It makes no difference to me. He has a place beyond Windsor. A hunting box of sorts.”
“You will give us the exact location,” Thorne said. “And do not consider even for an instant misleading us. For if you do—”
“If you do,” Stimson interrupted, “I shall personally beat you to within an inch of your miserable life.”
However reluctantly, Ferris parted with the detailed information they wanted.
With the addition of Winters and Stimson to their group, it was five determined men who set out that afternoon, well-armed and riding hard, heading for a sometime hunting box southwest of Windsor.
Nineteen
Annabelle had no idea precisely how long she and Luke had been locked in the room. She could tell by the elongated shadows on the ground below the window that it was late in the afternoon. They had taken turns at napping on the bed.
The door handle rattled as the door was unlocked. Annabelle sat up on the edge of the bed and Luke looked suddenly alert in one of the chairs. Jake brought in another tray of food. Behind him stood Beelson. When Jake had taken the previous tray, Beelson moved inside the door and closed it, but Annabelle caught a glimpse of Chet in a chair tipped against the wall outside.
“Well, I must say you two managed to set my plans awry a bit. And I am getting mightily sick of you Wainwrights always interfering,” he said darkly to Luke. “Rolsbury’s interference the other night set me back a week or more.”
“You! You were responsible for that incident at the Mayor’s ball,” Annabelle said.
“The original plan, my darling girl, was that I would take you to Paris for a honeymoon trip.”
“You truly are mad if for one moment you think I would willingly go anywhere with you.” Annabelle did not bother to temper her contempt to any degree.
“You need to get a civil tongue in that pretty head,” he said calmly and strode over to stand next to her. “I shall enjoy teaching you some manners, my sweet.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his forefinger. She jerked her head away, but he merely smiled.
“As I was saying,” he continued, “I have had to alter my plans slightly, so unfortunately we shall not leave for the continent this night as I had planned. And perhaps the addition of Wainwright here was rather fortuitous, after all. In any event, I have sent to London for a special license and a friend of mine who is a sometime vicar of the Church of England. When they arrive—be it three in the morning—we shall be married forthwith, my dear.”
Annabelle wanted to scream, but forced herself to speak calmly. “There is nothing in this world that would induce me to marry the likes of you.”
“Oh, you will agree to the marriage, all right.” His eyes glittered with triumph. “For if you do not, your friend here will feel the effects of the knife Chet so enjoys playing with. Did I fail to mention that in his own circles, Chet is known as ‘the butcher’?”
Annabelle shuddered and looked at him balefully. “Luke was supposed to be your friend, was he not?”
“Ah, and he was. A most convenient friend. I was especially pleased when I knew he’d had funds from Rolsbury to pay his debts to me.” He gave a maniacal laugh. “That was but the first installment on my revenge.”
Luke looked both angry and bewildered. “Just what did I do to you that you felt such need for vengeance?”
“You? Why, nothing at all, you puppy. You are merely a means to an end.”
Luke rose at this, his fists clenched.
“Tut! Tut!” Beelson waved him back. “Chet awaits—”
“He wants revenge against Thorne,” Annabelle said dully. She knew she had made a mistake when she saw Beelson’s face darken at her familiar use of Thorne’s name.
“Thorne?” Luke said in surprise. “Thorne was out of the country for years—and then he stayed at the Manor for even more years, recovering from his wounds. He could not possibly have earned this sort of ... hatred.”
“It goes back farther,” Annabelle said. “Catherine told me.”
“Catherine? My sister told you some family secret that even I do not know?”
Beelson looked from one to the other, with a decided smirk on his face. “This little melodrama is interesting, but I will leave you to it. The second installment will come when Rolsbury’s brother witnesses our marriage, my love. Would it were Rolsbury himself, but Luke here will have to do. And the coup de grace will come when I bed you.” Again he stroked her cheek and again she jerked away from his touch.
“And you believe that will secure any measure of vengeance against Lord Rolsbury?” Annabelle gave a bitter, empty laugh.
“Oh, yes.” He caressed her c
heek again and laughed softly. “I have seen the way he looks at you. Yes, indeed. Bedding you will give me much satisfaction.” The laugh turned malicious.
He started to go, then turned back and looked her over. “Hmm. Pity about the garb you have on. Not much of a wedding dress. But never fear, love, I will buy you lovely gowns in Paris—and the baubles to go with them.”
She jumped up from the edge of the bed and moved out of his reach. She sounded far more brave than she felt. “Do not be spending my money before you have it!”
“It will be mine by then, my darling—a wife’s property becomes her husband’s, you know.”
He was still laughing as he closed and locked the door. Annabelle sank back down on the bed and buried her face in her hands. Luke came to sit next to her and put his arm around her shoulder.
“Please don’t cry, Annabelle.” He sounded truly distressed. “There’s still hope. Come have a bite while we think on it.”
She dumbly followed his lead to the table. Cheese, bread, apples, and tea again.
“The cook has little imagination, it appears,” she said, trying to create some lightness in the whole miserable affair.
“True,” he agreed. “But look! They gave us knives and a spoon.”
“Luke, those are only table knives. How effective would they be as weapons against that Chet person’s butchering knife?”
“Not weapons. Tools!”
“Tools?”
“Tools. We might be able to loosen the plaster around those bars on the window.”
“And then what? We are on the second floor. It is a long way down there.”
“But there are sheets on that bed . . .”
She felt hope returning. At least they would be doing something to try to help themselves. They quickly fortified themselves with a few bites, then Luke set to work scraping away at the base of the first bar on the window and Annabelle began to rip sheets into wide strips which she would twist and tie together.
Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) Page 21
