by Cheryl Holt
He’d just received such a message, that a new client was desperate to speak with him immediately. He was hurrying down the street toward the establishment, eager to learn what opportunity would be presented.
In his thirty years of living, he’d carried out any number of distasteful tasks: bribing unsuitable swains so they’d vanish, kidnapping recalcitrant sons and delivering them to the navy against their will, sneaking off with a bastard baby so an angry father could lie to his too-young daughter and convince her that her child was stillborn.
He supposed he should have felt guilty, but he was summoned when a person was at his wit’s end, when every avenue had been pursued and there was no other option. If his conscience bothered him, he persuaded himself that he was rendering a service that couldn’t be obtained through other, less drastic means.
His attempts to rationalize didn’t always succeed, though. His recent assistance to Beatrice Scott was a case in point.
She was a nasty piece of work, but she offered such exorbitant fees that, when she contacted him, it was difficult to refuse.
He’d handled many assignments for her. Usually, he agreed that she was dealing with a miscreant who should be brought low. But not always. There’d been that pregnant housemaid. Another occasion, he’d carted off an older footman where she’d leveled a false charge of theft merely because she had no desire to provide a pension.
As he’d walked the man out the door, his wrists bound behind his back, Percival Scott had been watching from down the hall. He still remembered the lad’s look of censure, and Rafferty couldn’t think of it without suffering a wave of shame.
Grace Bennett was another unlucky soul who’d enraged Beatrice Scott. She’d simply shown up at the wrong place at the wrong time.
All the way to London, Miss Bennett had claimed a fond relationship with Jackson Scott, and her insistence had disconcerted Rafferty. He’d never met Mr. Scott, but he wouldn’t want to cross the man. He was wondering if he shouldn’t retrieve Grace Bennett, if he shouldn’t visit Mr. Scott on her behalf.
Miss Bennett had repeatedly mentioned how Mr. Scott might reward Rafferty for saving her. Shouldn’t he find out if Scott would?
He strolled along, lost in thought, trying to decide the best course, so he wasn’t paying attention. Suddenly, movement off to the side made him jump, but he couldn’t avoid the blow that was coming. He was hit on the head, with a stick or a club, hard enough to daze him and knock him to his knees.
He’d planned to leap up and defend himself, but the clout had been quite fierce. He was discombobulated, and he collapsed down, having adequate sense to roll onto his back. He was cursing himself for his stupidly, for being caught off guard.
Gradually, his vision cleared, and he was staring down the barrel of a cocked pistol.
"Hello, Mr. Rafferty," a man said.
He was large and muscular and very, very angry. He had dark hair and the type of blue, blue eyes Rafferty had only ever observed on one other person: Edward Scott. It was easy to discern his identity.
"Jackson Scott I presume?" Rafferty asked.
"Yes. How interesting that you would guess."
"Dammit."
"Let’s have a chat, shall we?"
"About what?"
"Do you really have to inquire?"
Mr. Scott grabbed Rafferty and lifted him to his feet. Rafferty was dizzy and swaying and could barely keep his balance, but he was sufficiently cognizant to see that Scott had several ruffians with him.
They were armed with clubs and pistols, and Rafferty wondered if he’d still be alive later in the day.
"This is my friend, Duncan Dane." Mr. Scott indicated the man beside him. "He’s married to Grace Bennett’s sister."
Rafferty gave Mr. Dane a half-hearted smile. "Hello."
"I’m extremely fond of my wife," Dane said, "and I wouldn’t take kindly to any harm coming to a member of her family."
"And these hale fellows"—Mr. Scott gestured to the others—"are debt collectors with whom Mr. Dane has recently been intimately acquainted."
"Hello," Rafferty said again, but they were stoically silent.
"I’ve hired them to work for me," Mr. Scott explained. "They’ll commit any mayhem in order to please their employer and earn their wages. They like to break bones and scar and maim. You and these gents could be chums."
"I’m a professional," Rafferty huffed, "not an uncivilized barbarian. I don’t scar and maim."
"No, you just terrorize and kidnap. How many poor people has my mother arranged for you to hurt over the years?"
Rafferty thought it was ten, but it might have been eleven. He couldn’t recall. Still, he claimed, "Not that many."
"When I’m through with you, I expect you’ll give me a full, written report about each case."
It didn’t appear that he was about to be murdered—it might occur after Mr. Scott was gone—but he decided it wisest to assist however he could.
"I’m always happy to help," Rafferty replied.
Mr. Scott snorted with disgust. "Let’s talk about Grace Bennett."
"What did you wish to know?"
"Where is she?"
"Over on the next block. Would you like me to show you?"
"I’d be delighted."
Rafferty stepped away, and the group tensed and raised their fists.
"Easy, easy…" he murmured. "No need for trouble. It’s this way."
He started again, more slowly, and Mr. Scott said, "Yes, lead on, but if you try to run, I have no qualms about shooting you in the back."
"I’m not planning to run. I’ll gladly take you to Miss Bennett. I’d just been thinking I should fetch her away and bring her to you."
"Really?" Scott scoffed.
Mr. Dane said, "You’re a veritable angel of mercy, Rafferty."
"Aren’t I, though?"
"Shut up," Scott snapped, and he urged Rafferty forward with the barrel of his gun.
They were in a rough neighborhood where the very worst criminals plied their trades. Rafferty was a notorious figure, but no one intervened or questioned his situation. Mr. Scott looked lethal and determined, his accomplices, too, and passersby scurried out of their path.
Rafferty sauntered at a leisurely pace, not wanting to enrage his captors, but also—in case he would be killed in the end—wanting to enjoy the view.
He escorted them to the warehouse where he’d left Miss Bennett. It was basically a holding pen for ships conveying debtors and other miscreants to America and Australia. The captives weren’t there under a court order and plenty of bribery money changed hands.
They neared the gate, and the regular guard was sitting on his stool. When he saw Rafferty’s predicament, he frowned and stood but took no evasive action. He was a functionary and wouldn’t aid Rafferty or antagonize his companions.
"What is this place?" Mr. Scott studied it with a good deal of scorn.
"It’s a…private facility."
"What sort of private facility?"
"People like your mother use it to make others vanish." Rafferty nodded to the guard. "We have to speak with one of your prisoners. Open up."
The man’s eyes widened with fear. "It won’t be possible."
"Don’t quibble, you fool," Rafferty barked. "This is Mr. Jackson Scott, brother to the earl of Milton. Let the bloody man inside."
"You misunderstand," the guard hastily said.
Scott loomed in. "What do I misunderstand?"
"They’re gone," the guard said. "The ship sailed this morning at high tide."
"I’ll just see for myself," Scott seethed.
The guard pulled on the gate, and Scott and Dane raced through. The others stayed with Rafferty, waiting. In a few minutes, Scott and Dane dashed back.
"It’s empty," Mr. Scott said, stunned. "The entire building is deserted."
He came up to Rafferty so they were toe to toe. They were equal in height, but Rafferty was broader across the shoulders. In a fair fight, he probab
ly could have bested the man, but at the moment, there was no chance.
"Miss Bennett is my fiancée," Scott fumed.
At the declaration, Rafferty was certain his imminent death was approaching. Why, oh why, hadn’t he listened to Miss Bennett’s protestations of affection? Yet he scowled and shook his head.
"That can’t be right. You’re engaged to Susan Scott. Your mother told me; she told Miss Bennett."
"My mother told Miss Bennett I was engaged to Susan?"
"I convinced her to forget about you, that you were marrying according to your station and would no longer be interested in her plight."
Now, it was Scott’s turn to curse. "Dammit."
Mr. Dane interjected, "I bet Grace wasn’t happy to hear that. How will you ever explain it to her, Jackson?"
"She’ll never forgive me," Scott glumly mused.
"You have to find her," Dane said.
"Yes, and Mr. Rafferty will assist me." He leaned in, his malice intense, his threat clear. "And if I don’t find her, Rafferty will gladly pay the price for all his sins."
"I was kind to her," Rafferty stated in his own defense. "She’ll tell you I was."
"She’d better say you were an absolute saint because when I pluck her off that ship, there will be an extra space. You’d be the perfect person to take her spot."
Rafferty gulped with alarm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Grace sat on the deck, letting the sun warm her face. She was determined to spend as much time as she could in the fresh air before she was told to climb down the ladder into the hatch.
There were several women with her, and while she dreamed of leaping up and jumping overboard, their ankles were roped together, and she was in the middle of the group.
Escape was impossible.
We might as well be African slaves, she thought. When they arrived at their destination, they would be sold into indenture as servants, but she refused to consider herself as anything but a prisoner.
She hadn’t been convicted in a court of law, but she’d been charged and found guilty all the same. By Beatrice Scott. With the reprehensible Mr. Rafferty as Beatrice’s blunt weapon of force.
She gazed around, assessing the dock, the shops and warehouses on the quay.
They’d stopped in Dover to load cargo, but when the tide turned again, they’d hoist the sails and leave England forever.
She wanted to imprint every detail in her memory so she would never forget. It seemed as if she’d died, as if she was invisible and viewing her surroundings with the sort of nostalgia a person in heaven would feel.
She wondered where Michael was, if Beatrice had located him. Where would they take him? What would happen to the marvelous boy?
Grace still couldn’t comprehend Beatrice’s malice toward Michael. Why be cruel to him? Supposedly, Edward had been Beatrice’s favorite. Why wouldn’t she welcome Michael? Or at least grudgingly accept him?
It made no sense other than to realize that Beatrice was insane.
Had anyone noticed Grace was missing? Perhaps she would become the subject of a ghost story at Milton Abbey. The vanishing female! There one moment and gone the next! People would debate her fate for centuries.
She snorted with disgust. No one at the Abbey would ever think of her again. Most especially Jackson Scott.
"Oh, Jackson," she murmured to herself, "have you any idea what was done to me?"
A guard came by, poking at the prisoners with a stick, urging them to stand. Reluctantly, she and her companions staggered to their feet.
"Must we go below?" Grace asked.
"Yes, you must."
"It’s so lovely out. Can’t you give us a few more minutes?"
Her request angered him, and he snapped, "Go below, miss. All of you go. I won’t tell you again."
He shoved the woman at the end of the rope so she could lead the way, and they shuffled along.
They approached the hatch, and Grace glanced over her shoulder. The guard was glaring at her, and she whipped away. There was lust in his eyes, and it dawned on her that there were dangers on the voyage she hadn’t foreseen.
She had to remember to always stay with the other passengers, to never be caught alone, and she speculated about the captain. Would he allow his sailors to interfere with the female captives? Could a sailor take a woman out of the hold and make sport with her?
Grace shuddered with dread. She had to keep her mouth shut and her head down, which were the exact types of behaviors she’d never been able to display.
The woman next to her stumbled, pulling the rope taut, causing everyone to jerk and lurch and fall. Grace grabbed the ladder to steady herself.
As she did, a commotion commenced down on the dock.
"No, you may not," a crew member barked. He was the sentry on the gangplank, deciding who could board and who couldn’t.
"I’m not asking permission," a man bellowed. "I’m telling you that we’re coming up. Get out of my way."
Grace froze. For the briefest instant, she thought it had sounded like Jackson Scott.
"You’re hallucinating," she scolded.
Still, she craned her neck, hoping to discern who it was, but she was too far from the edge of the ship and couldn’t peek over the rail.
"I’ll call the captain!" the crew member shouted as furious footsteps pounded up the gangplank. "I will. I’m not joking!"
"Yes, by all means, summon your bloody captain!"
"He’ll have you strung up."
"I’d like to see him try!"
The booted strides grew closer and closer, the ship swaying as the advancing weight shifted it on the water.
Then—her hallucination complete—Jackson Scott appeared. He was no mirage, no illusion. He was very, very real.
A pistol in one hand, a club in the other, he leapt onto the deck.
"I’m here for Miss Grace Bennett," he said. "You’d better tell me she’s here, and that she’s safe and sound, or you’ve drawn your last breath."
Grace, who was always calm in a crisis, who was always composed through the very worst situations, who was never dizzy, never queasy, never off balance, who’d never swooned in her life…
Grace tipped to one side, then the other, and fainted dead away.
DC
Jackson hurried down the muddy street, heading for the town’s only decent hotel where he’d had Duncan take Grace after they’d removed her from the ship.
He hadn’t yet had a chance to speak with her. The moment he’d seen her, lying unconscious on the deck, he’d thought she’d died. He’d nearly dropped dead himself.
Once he’d ascertained that she’d simply fainted, he hadn’t bothered rousing her. He’d given her to Duncan to whisk away. Jackson had remained at the harbor to deal with the captain and other passengers.
The captain hadn’t put up any resistance. He and his miserable crew were under arrest with Jackson eager to ensure they were prosecuted. A fitting punishment might be their own transportation to Australia.
As to the passengers, most of them were like Grace, victims who had committed no crime except to be poor or outspoken or a trial to their parents. There were plenty of women with children. What was to be done with them?
He couldn’t send them back to the villages from which they’d been wrongly seized, and he wasn’t running a charity that could support them all.
But it looked as if he’d be dispersing many of them among the various Scott family estates, finding them work and housing. He couldn’t cut them loose with no money and nowhere to go.
While he’d planned to penalize Mr. Rafferty for his role in Grace’s kidnapping, the man had proved himself indispensible in untangling the mess. He was adept at questioning people, at quickly delving to the heart of each person’s circumstances, so Jackson hadn’t murdered him and had decided to hire him when they were through.
If he was employed by Jackson, he wouldn’t be out engaging in mischief. Plus, he was the only one who was thoro
ughly familiar with Beatrice’s actions. Jackson needed him to return to the properties where Beatrice had inflicted so much harm, needed him to determine how Jackson could make amends.
Jackson saw the hotel up ahead, and he slowed to compose himself. As he unraveled the chaos caused by his arrival, he would be trapped in Dover for several days or perhaps even several weeks.
Now that he’d found Grace, he didn’t want to be parted from her ever again. Yet with his mother telling her he was betrothed to Susan, she might not wish to stay with him. He had to straighten out the muddle.
He was going to propose, she was going to accept, and he would marry her the first second he was able. He was desperate to bind her to him so completely that they could never be separated, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
They were marrying and that was that.
He walked inside, and before he could proceed to the desk to ask where Grace was located, he was distracted by male laughter. He peered over to discover a taproom filled with travelers, sailors, and others who plied their trades along the wharf.
A raucous card game was in progress, with Duncan front and center. He had accumulated quite a pile of coins from those who had stupidly agreed to gamble with him. Duncan was a notorious cheat, but of course, his unsuspecting companions couldn’t know his true proclivities
Jackson’s aggravation spiraled. He’d specifically told Duncan to watch over Grace until Jackson could come for her. He marched over.
"Duncan."
"What?" Duncan was so absorbed in the game that he didn’t glance up.
"Duncan!" Jackson repeated more firmly, and he tapped Duncan on the shoulder.
Duncan peeked up. "I didn’t think you’d ever get here."
"Where is Grace?"
"Grace?" Duncan scowled as if he’d forgotten who she was.
"Why aren’t you with her?"
"She left."
"Left! Where did she go?"
"To Milton Abbey—on the mail coach."
"Why would you let her go?"
"Have you tried to tell that stubborn woman anything? She doesn’t listen. Not to a man anyway. And particularly not to me."
"Did she say why she went?"
