“Mrs. Tarrant, you received my missive?” Pennington bowed so low that he added another insult to his former ones.
In no mood to open a discussion with him, during which he might try to take advantage of her, Georgianne withdrew her pistol from her muff. She pointed it at him—but not without considerable misgiving, for what would she do if he refused to obey her? “Turn around and put your hands up against the wall.”
“Why?” he inquired, his tone amused.
“Ask no questions, only believe that I will shoot you if you do not comply.”
His face twisted into a scowl. “Surely you jest?”
“Do not banter with me. My father taught me to hit a target from thirty paces. How far are you from me? Do not underestimate me, my lord.”
Although he glared at her and squared his shoulders, to her relief, Pennington obeyed.
She slid the dagger out of its sheath with her free hand. “Summon your footman.”
“Peter,” the earl called.
“Louder.”
“Peter,” his lordship bellowed.
At the sight of her dagger and pistol the footman goggled at her.
“Tie your master’s hands behind his back.”
The footman’s eyebrows arched. “With what?”
“Your neck cloth will suffice. Do not hesitate. If you do, I might be tempted to shoot you.”
With shaking hands, Peter unwound his neck cloth and stood with his mouth agape.
“Tie your master’s hands tightly and do not make a foolish move. Should you do so, it will be the worse for both of you.”
What would her husband think of her if he could see her at this moment? Would he deplore her unladylike conduct or admire her? No matter, she must save Bab.
“You may turn slowly to face me, my lord, but remember that one incautious shout or movement might earn your death. My sister means more to me than my life and I am willing to face execution for her sake.”
Her head held high, she observed Pennington’s ashen cheeks. A coward, she thought, her self-confidence increasing.
She out-stared the frightened footman. “One move and you will be dead. Stand with your back to the wall and put your hands on your head. Do not forget I can shoot you as easily as I can shoot your master.”
He spun around and stood with his forehead pressed against the wall. “For gawd’s sake don’t shoot me, madam, my parents depend on me.”
“Do as you are told and no harm will come to you.” She stared hard into the earl’s eyes. “Now, my lord, tell me where my sister is.”
“In the nursery.”
“Why did you kidnap her?”
“To force your hand, Mrs. Tarrant.”
“I do not understand. What do you want of me?”
“Your favour,” Pennington drawled. “You should be mine not that upstart major’s.”
Furious, she held her head high. “Be very careful how you speak of my husband. My finger might press the trigger by accident.”
Some colour returned to the earl’s cheeks and he stood a little straighter. “When I first saw you, Mrs. Tarrant, I mistook you for a sweet young lady. I now salute your spirit for you are magnificent. You would have made a worthy countess. My compliments to you for holding my interest. I desire you more than ever, but if you will not pass the night with me in my bed, I would have no objection to marrying Miss Whitley.”
Marry Helen? Never! The man really was queer in the attic.
“Enough, my lord, send someone to fetch my sister.”
Pennington stepped forward, his hands still bound behind his back. “If I refuse to restore her to you?” Overcome by a bout of coughing, he bent double, his eyes closed.
With a steady hand, Georgianne aimed her pistol at him, while still keeping an eye on the footman.
The fit of coughing left Pennington breathless when he stood straight again.
“Into the hall with you, Peter,” Georgianne said. “Fetch my sister from the nursery. Any trickery and I will kill your master. Hurry.”
The footman looked apologetically at the earl. “Begging your pardon, my lord, I have to obey the lady.”
Pennington tried to kick her. Her rage bolstered her courage. “Enough of that if you do not want me to put a bullet in your kneecap.”
Overcome by another fit of coughing, Pennington bent forward. To warn him of the seriousness of her threats, she brandished her dagger with her free hand.
“Bitch,” the earl swore as soon as he caught his breath.
“Were you not an old man, my husband would kill you.”
The earl’s eyes rolled like a frightened beast’s. “Fetch the child, Peter, and do not summon assistance. I have no doubt that the trollop might kill me.”
His face shocked, Peter nodded and hurried out of the room.
* * * *
“Georgianne,” Bab called from the top of the stairs and scampered down them followed by Peter.
After a swift glance at her sister, who appeared unharmed, Georgianne kept close watch on the earl. “Come here, Bab.”
The child pointed at Pennington and stamped her foot. “I hate him. His men dragged me away from the Frost Fair and he would not let me go home.”
Georgianne smiled with appreciation of Bab. Her indomitable little sister’s rage matched her own.
“Did he hurt you, Bab?”
“No.”
“Take her with my blessing.” Pennington wrinkled his nose. “She told me to apply boiled onions to cure my cough.”
“Strap them to your belly,” Bab said, obviously unabashed by her ordeal.
A brief flicker of amusement appeared in the depths of the earl’s eyes. “What is more, Mrs. Tarrant, your abominable sister told me to partake of syrup of onions. If I took her impertinent advice, my breath would reek so badly that no one at Whites would speak to me.”
“You contemptible creature, if the members of your gentleman’s club find out that you kidnapped my sister, they will never speak to you again.”
Pennington cleared his throat. “You are mistaken. I would tell them I found your sister lost in the crowd at the Frost Fair and took her home out of—shall we say—the kindness of my heart. They would believe me.”
“In that case, my sister and I would make statements to the magistrate.”
He leered. “You are as spirited as an unbroken, thoroughbred filly and deserve to be my countess. Will you not pass the night with me?”
When would the man not accept that she despised him?
Georgianne controlled the unladylike urge to spit at him. “If I repeat your words to my husband he will kill you regardless of your white hair.”
“I doubt your honourable major would kill a man more than twice his age.”
“Enough, order Peter to have a carriage brought round to the front of the house.”
“Peter, do as the lady says.”
The footman hesitated.
“Are you stupid, Peter? Do you not understand the consequences of disobeying me?” Pennington asked. “Now, follow Mrs. Tarrant’s instructions. Do not summon help, it might be my death warrant.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“I am exhausted. May I sit?” Pennington asked.
Georgianne feared trickery. “No.”
The seconds ticked by. A knock sounded on the front door. The carriage? She ushered Pennington into the hall and through the open front door into the ice-cold square, where a groom stood by the lowered steps of a town carriage.
“My lord, order your man to stand aside.”
“Do as she says,” the earl said.
“Get in,” Georgianne commanded in order to give him no chance to countermand her orders after she entered the coach.
Pennington glared at her. “You are wise not to leave anything to chance.”
Georgianne came up behind him, pistol at the ready.
After he obeyed, she encouraged Bab to ascend the steps and sit next to her.
“Half Moon Street,�
� Georgianne ordered the coachman and took her seat.
The earl inclined his head. “I concede defeat but I am not as great a scoundrel as you believe, Mrs. Tarrant. I would never harm a child.”
“I suppose you believe the fright of her abduction has done her no harm?”
“She does not seem frightened.”
“To you, perhaps, but I only have to look at her face to know that she is.”
* * * *
Pennington sat back and peered through the dim interior of the coach at the pale blurred faces of Mrs. Tarrant and her youngest sister. He would never give up his attempt to bed the petite brunette and be revenged for her rejecting his hand in marriage. He always settled his scores with his foes. Mrs. Tarrant would pay dearly when he married—what was her name—ah yes, Helen. And, if he could grasp an opportunity to bed the upstart major’s wife, she would pay sorely for her insulting behaviour and her refusal to marry him.
Content with his plan, he smiled.
Chapter Ten
“Request my wife to join us in the library,” Tarrant said immediately after his butler opened the front door. He beckoned to his friend. “Come, Langley.”
“Madam went out, sir,” Barnes replied.
Tarrant and Langley took off their hats and coats and handed them to a footman.
“Do you know where Mrs. Tarrant went, Barnes?” Tarrant inquired, a new fear added to the previous one.
Barnes shook his head, the expression on his face solemn.
“Where is Miss Whitley?” Tarrant asked.
“Asleep in her bedchamber and—if you will pardon me for saying so—Mrs. Deane is dozing in the parlour.”
Tarrant led the way to the library where a voracious fire cast menacing shadows on the dark red walls.
Sombre-eyed, his face creased with anxiety, Langley sat. He sighed, stretched his feet toward the grate, and stared at the flames.
Tarrant poured brandy for each of them and handed a glass to his friend, before sitting opposite him in one of a pair of wing chairs. His jaw tightened. Not only was the lost child as much his responsibility as his wife’s, to make matters worse, much worse, Georgianne had ventured out alone. She could not have picked a worse time to do so. An ever-increasing fog covered London like a shroud. While Georgianne and Bab were missing on this bitterly cold night, he was consumed by guilt for sitting safe by the fire, although he was chilled to the bone. Yet, after informing the magistrate—who would alert the Runners of Bab’s disappearance—other than knocking on every door until they found her, what more could he and Langley do until the fog lifted? Could Pennington be responsible for Bab’s disappearance? No, surely even that half- crazed but cunning old fool would not stoop to such a measure.
He thought he would go mad speculating on the evil fate that might have befallen a child as pretty as Bab, and wondering if someone had either assaulted Georgianne or murdered her under the cover of fog. Though he had briefly suspected the earl of being behind Bab’s disappearance, he could not imagine his wife would be foolish enough to go to Pennington’s house. Where had she gone and why?
The front door opened. Female voices sounded.
Tarrant rose and strode into the hall where Georgianne was wrapping her cloak around Bab.
Three swift strides took Tarrant to his wife’s side. “Thank God both of you are safe.” His strong hands drew Georgianne close to him. Despite his relief, his anger boiled over. “How dare you go out of the house alone and on such a night? Why did you not leave a message for me?”
Georgianne’s eyes flashed. “Let go of me.”
“Where have you been? Where did you find Bab?”
“I will tell you later. Bab is half frozen. Her teeth are chattering.”
“I hate the earl,” Bab said.
Tarrant cocked an eyebrow. “Pennington?”
“Yes, he dragged me to his house and then Georgianne rescued me.”
“How dare you go there,” Tarrant roared as though Georgianne was a subordinate in his former regiment.
“In his note, he threatened to harm Bab if I did not go alone.”
His hands tightened on her shoulders.
“You are hurting me,” Georgianne said in a small voice and looked up at him with a hint of fear in her eyes.
He released her and stared down at her lovely face. Immediately, he repented of his anger born of anxiety for her well being. “I am sorry. Please forgive me both for shouting and for hurting you unintentionally. My only excuse is I have been wracked with fear for your safety.”
Langley tapped Tarrant on the back. “Judging by the state you are in, Rupes, you need a brandy. Egad, not even in the thick of battle have I seen you so distraught. Where is that famous cool head of yours? To warm them, I think Mrs. Tarrant should have a brandy and Miss Barbara should have a small measure in hot milk.”
“Yes, of course. Barnes, have some hot milk brought to the library for Miss Barbara.” To detain his wife, who had turned to follow Langley and Bab to the library, he caught hold of her hand. “I am your husband. You should have asked me to help. Regrettably, you did not feel able to confide in me and that means I have failed you.”
“Oh, no, you are mistaken. You have not let me down. How could you think that?” Georgianne swung around to face him. “I could not take the risk.”
“Of what?”
“Of Pennington hurting you. I had to protect you.”
How did his petite, well brought up wife, who looked so dainty, imagine she could safeguard him? In spite of his concern he smiled ruefully. “You are adorable, and…it seems, you care about me.”
“Of course I do. You are my husband. How could I stand back knowing someone might harm you?”
“Princess, my princess.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her smooth cheek.
His wife’s arms strained to hold him close. Passion gripped him but as soon as it did the memory of Dolores’s death returned and immobilized him. A cough reminded him they were standing in the reception hall in full view of the servants. He released Georgianne. “Come.” He led his wife to the library and poured her a glass of brandy with an unsteady hand.
Langley looked up from a sofa opposite the fire. “Thank God Mrs. Tarrant is safe.”
“Of course Georgianne’s safe,” Bab said. “She can shoot as well as any man. Papa taught her. She frightened the earl.”
“Did she?” Tarrant forced himself to smile at the child who sat next to Langley wrapped in a quilt a maid had fetched.
Bab nodded.
“Well then, you have a sister of whom you should be proud.” He tilted Georgianne’s face toward him, appreciative of her courage that blazed as brightly as Bab’s red hair. “M’dear, forgive me, when we married I wanted to help and protect you. I have failed abominably.”
“Fudge, how could you have known that Pennington would go so far?”
“You are generous.”
Langley stood. “Time for me to take my leave. Good night, ma’am. I will wait on you tomorrow to see how you and your sisters are.” He cleared his throat. “I trust Miss Whitley is not…not…”
“I administered a few drops of laudanum to soothe her and hope she will sleep well,” Georgianne replied.
* * * *
Tarrant’s kiss on her cheek still thrilled Georgianne while she undressed Bab and helped her into a clean nightgown. A maid warmed the sheets with a bedpan full of hot coals and put a hot brick wrapped in flannel between them.
Georgianne tied the ribbons of Bab’s nightcap. “Get into bed. You are safe.” She bent down to pat the child’s head. “You have been very brave and now there is no need to be frightened.”
“I was not frightened—at least, only a little.” Bab looked past her. “Cousin Tarrant!”
Georgianne straightened her back and looked across the bedchamber. Her husband had stepped into the room, too quietly to be heard.
Tarrant smiled at Bab reassuringly. “Georgianne is right. There is nothing to fear.”
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Bab yawned and rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. “Cousin Tarrant, please tell me a story. If you tell me one I can go to sleep.”
“Are you ill?” Georgianne sat next to Bab and put an arm around her. “Do you have a fever, dearest?”
Her sister pouted. “No.”
Tarrant sat on the other side of the bed and took Bab’s hand in his. “If you will oblige me by lying down, I shall oblige you by telling a story.”
Without further protest, Bab nestled beneath her bedcovers.
Tarrant began a tale about an incident in Portugal. Twice it seemed his deep voice had lulled Bab into sleep, but each time he stopped, she opened her eyes and in a drowsy voice asked him to continue. By the time Bab slumbered, Georgianne’s eyes had closed.
“Come, Georgianne.” Tarrant drew her gently to her feet. “Barbara is safe.”
“If Pennington had harmed her, I do not know what I might have done.”
“Shush, he did not hurt her. Do not torment yourself.”
Georgianne retied the ribbons of her sister’s nightcap and kissed her hot cheek. She straightened, and gazed at Bab’s small form under the quilt. “I will sit by her in case she wakes and is frightened.”
Tarrant snuffed out the candles. “Do not fret, Princess.”
Georgianne swayed, so tired she could scarcely stand.
“You are exhausted, Georgianne, and I am a brute for speaking so harshly to you when you returned with Bab.” Tarrant scooped her up in his arms. His warm lips pressed a kiss on her forehead. She put her arms around his neck wishing he would kiss her on the mouth. Instead, he carried her to her private parlour where sharp-eyed Elliot was kneeling as she added more coal to the fire.
“You may go, Elliot,” Tarrant said.
Tarrant drew Georgianne onto his lap as soon as the door closed behind the woman.
“Promise me that you will never frighten me again as you did today. I employed footmen to protect you whenever you go out because, although I never imagined Pennington would behave so shamefully, I feared he would attempt some mischief.”
“I doubt you have ever been as frightened for me as I was for Bab.”
Sunday's Child (Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week Book 1) Page 10
