“Father sent it to me from Belgium, right before he died.”
“Ah.” Scarbreigh’s gravity deepened as he leaned over the circlet. “A European creation, then. You must treasure it. May I see it?”
Bethany chuckled and raised her wrist to allow him to examine each charm intently. Brows puckered, she said, “I’d be insulted if you’ve concocted a plan to memorize it so that you can have a copy made for Lady Camille.”
Scarbreigh coughed, his cheeks reddening. “You’ve caught me out. I was contemplating exactly that, and you’re correct. It wouldn’t be at all respectful.” Then he winked. “Something like it perhaps, but not a copy.”
A shadow fell over Bethany’s shoulder. She looked up to see Locke staring at Scarbreigh. The marquess set her hand free and produced a bland smile.
“Delightful piece, isn’t it, Locke? Lord Whitton always did have good taste.”
“He did.”
Locke congratulated Scarbreigh on his betrothal, and the marquess thanked him before excusing himself to find his fiancée.
“Odd to have a man so entranced with a bracelet,” Bethany murmured, turning the chain around on her wrist and examining the charms. “But Scarbreigh has always been a bit odd.”
Locke laughed. “He has. I fear my ankle and skull need a reprieve, my lady, and Lady Hannaford wishes to go home. Shall we do likewise?”
“I’m beyond ready,” Bethany replied, despite dreading their nightly talk tonight—if they talked—and what it might bring. And whether they did or not, she wondered if she’d be able to sleep, worried the way she was about Lady Camille and Scarbreigh.
* * *
Lord and Lady Hannaford and the twins retired to their own townhouse for the night, but Lady Camille was already established at Lord Locke’s home and opted to remain, at least for the time being. She was in transports on the way home, giddy from the depth of her love and three glasses of wine. Bethany had no desire to criticize, although she had to stifle laughter when her cousin broke into song along the way. At least Lady Camille was sure of foot when they arrived, and bid them good night, sailing up the stairs to her room without a backward glance.
“What is wrong with the younger generation?” Lady Katherine murmured, shaking her head in disapproval. “My niece has always been the most refined of my and my sister’s children. I would never have expected such a display from her.”
“She’s happy, Mum,” Bethany said.
“She’s lubricated,” the countess replied, and then she barked laughter. “But I can’t say I blame her. She has the exceptional prospect of marrying for love. Would that we all could make such a claim. Sleep well, daughter, and you too, my lord.”
Locke’s smile faded when Lady Katherine departed. “Would you like something to help you sleep tonight, my dear?”
Had he read her thoughts? Bethany agreed and requested an herbal draught, Locke sending Mr. Treadwell after it and his own tisanes. They mounted the stairs to his room and sat on the settee this time, comparing notes on the night’s excitement until Mr. Treadwell arrived. The honeyed tea tasted good, and Bethany prayed the mixture of chamomile, valerian root, and mallow would truly help her sleep.
Locke bid Mr. Treadwell good evening and began their discussion by asking whether anyone at Almack’s that long-ago night didn’t seem to belong there. She denied it. Bethany and Lady Camille had danced with both Scarbreigh and the twins, followed by a dozen acolytes, including young Lord Jamison and a few of the Notables. She’d stepped onto the veranda to escape the heat with that elusive someone, or perhaps more than one someone, but she still had no idea who.
“What about the men who grabbed you up? Can you describe them?”
Tremors ensued that had the teacup clattering on its saucer. Locke set the dishes on the table for her and then sandwiched her hands between his own. “Keep it simple, my dear. One thought or feeling at a time.”
She described Almack’s veranda, and the ensuing walk on the grounds. The fetid breath of her kidnappers. The gag choking her; the burlap sack scratching her face. She heard river traffic in the background when they arrived, and the stench of fish and neglected horses and dogs. A location near the docks?
And one man, pulling off the sack, slamming her against the weathered slats of a wall, and in the near distance a voice, a cultured voice, demanding her attention. She was in a stall in a stable. The cultured man stood behind her, in the abandoned stable’s aisle, where she couldn’t see him. He warned her that resistance was useless, that there was more at stake here than she could ever imagine.
He then spoke to the man holding her against the wall by her throat, telling the monster that he and his two comrades could do whatever they needed to get the information from her they wanted—with three exceptions and a warning.
“Do not damage the girl’s face, break no bones, and you dare not defile her. And whatever the outcome, return her to the Whitton townhouse stable within the next two hours.”
Then he departed and left her to them.
On a makeshift table to the side of the room lie a horrendous row of gleaming tools, weapons she had no doubt were meant to exact torture. Not far from them was a fire in a small brazier, a poker submerged in its burning coals.
“Tell me what I want,” the man said, yanking the poker from the coals and waving it too close to her left eye. “Or you’ll wear burns that’ll ruin ya’ fer a lifetime.”
But he’d been told not to mar her face! Did he not care?
Then came the multitude of senseless questions and demands for answers she couldn’t give. Bethany wept her innocence, swearing she had no idea. Her father had given her nothing important. No letters, no books, no messages in any sort of code. Why would he use a code, she’d cried out? And to whom would it mean anything? The monsters had pushed her around between them, slapping her, tearing her skirts, ripping one shoulder of her dress, mocking her, yelling at her, demanding she tell them what her father had given her.
Their fists avoided her face, of course, but nothing else. The second torturer repeatedly nicked her shoulders and both arms with a small, singularly sharp knife with each unanswered question, leaving bloody trails down her appendages. The third man employed the poker, running it over her arms and legs, her back and feet, all of them laughing when she screamed.
Locke shushed Bethany’s sobs, murmuring, “Oh, dear heart. I cannot believe they did this to you. Rest a moment. You needn’t go on if it’s too much.”
“I have to say it now,” she said, her voice breaking up, “before my courage fails.”
The monsters suddenly stopped their torture.
“She don’t know,” the third man finally said. The leader nodded.
“Seems you’re right,” he’d replied. “We’ve not much more time before getting her home. I’d kill her, if’n I had my way, but you know how The One feels ‘bout her.”
“She’s a pretty wench, she is. Doesn’t seem fair ‘e should have all ‘e wants of ‘er, while we be doin’ all the work,” said the second. They laughed in agreement.
Bethany cringed at what followed, desperate to forget it.
But her mind carried on, the memories pouring out in a flood.
Suggestive laughter and hands touching her, pulling her hair. “You’re right ‘bout that. She’s a bruised apple already. Mayhap we should take a bite outta her, see how she tastes.”
Bethany cried out in misery and Locke’s groan sent the nightmare spinning away.
“Come, my dear, let me hold you.” He stroked her head and rocked her, his own eyes moist, and let her cry into his chest.
What seemed eons later, with her sobs drifting into silence, Bethany was amazed to find her burden feeling lighter. If nothing else, sharing this much of the horrors had helped lessen their power over her.
Locke pressed his lips to her brow, and she looked up, winded at the warmth in his eyes. He lowered his head to press the tenderest of kisses to her mouth. She adored its sweetness, but remembe
ring what those men had done to her made her pull away from him. She couldn’t do this. She had no right to his affections.
His hands stilled and then he curled a finger and lifted her chin until her eyes met his.
“It’s alright, my love,” he said. “One step at a time. We shan't rush.” He went round the room dousing the lanterns, leaving but one candle at the bedside burning. “Come, lie down beside me. Rest and feel safe. I won’t let anything happen to you tonight.”
Bethany opened her mouth to decline, but then he stretched his full height out on top of the coverlet and offered to hold her. Bethany hadn’t realized trust was a tangible thing until that moment, when she found it waiting for her, disguised as her husband’s warm and sinewy arms. They wrapped themselves around her and encouraged her to fall into a safe, dreamless sleep nestled against him.
* * *
“This is awfully sudden, Beth,” Lady Katherine protested, her brows furrowed in apprehension. “Is something wrong?”
“No, Mum. You know I’ve no love for the city; it’s hard enough for me to admit this week was a nice change of pace. But I want to go home.”
“Well, if you must. Lady Camille and I are moving our belongings to the Hannaford townhouse. We’ll go home next week, as we’d planned. I’ve loved spending time with you, darling, and I’ll send you a note when I’m ready to visit Moorewood.”
Bethany nodded and returned her hug, and then faced Lady Camille after her mother walked away.
“What’s going on, Lady Bethany?” Lady Camille murmured.
“Nothing,” Bethany replied, but she glanced towards Locke.
Lady Camille twitched a tentative smile, although she rubbed her right temple against a wine-induced headache. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready, but Melissa said you didn’t come to your bedchamber last night. That you sneaked in from Locke’s early this morning.”
Bethany sighed in irritation. “Gossiping servants. It’s not what you think. Yes, we spent the night together, talking and then sleeping, and I mean sleeping. Locke is, well, he’s trying to help me work out ... what happened last April.”
“Bethany, that’s capital! That you’ve told him at least some of it and that he cares enough to get you through it is wonderful. Has it helped?”
“To some degree. He was best of friends with Lord Christian and Mr. Collin, and I dare say he knew my father better in some ways than did I. In a sense, my loss is his loss. But I still can’t tell him everything, and I’ve no doubt how he’ll feel when he knows the whole of it.” Bethany ached to confess to her cousin what she’d witnessed over the summer, her eaves-droppings and her accidental discoveries, especially now, but something still held her back.
“He’s truly in love with you, Beth.”
“I’ve no idea what that means, Cam. Is falling in love enough? Besides, he’ll be gone most of the time, and I fear he’s involved in something ... dangerous. I’m convinced he’s preferred his solitary life because he’s safest without connections. I cannot elaborate now, but perhaps I’ll understand it better by the time you come to Moorewood again.”
Lady Camille nodded and squeezed Bethany’s hands. “You’re traveling without jewelry again, except for your wedding rings,” she noted. “Locke’s still worried about thieves?”
“Yes. I’ve a few pieces of lesser value in my trunks, but the rest will stay here in Locke’s safe. I suppose it’s best.”
Lady Camille stepped back so that Mr. Treadwell could help Bethany and Melissa into the carriage. The trip home would be easier. Locke’s carriage and one wagon would take them, Bethany’s purchases, and Moorewood’s servants home, while Locke rode Polly. The rest of it would remain with the dowager countess and Lady Camille.
Parting wishes said, they soon departed, and that evening, following an unremarkable ride, Bethany was grateful to unwind her stiff joints from the carriage and step inside the manor.
She was even more grateful to find her room undisturbed. Taylor-Ward’s crew would finish the rest of the manor within the next week or so, but Bethany’s paints, a new wallpaper she was eager to try, and the new furnishings had not yet arrived. The work on her bedchamber couldn’t begin until then. Wanting her privacy and as close to familiar spaces as possible, Bethany did not mind.
Things, however, did not return to normal. Bethany felt smothered, watched every minute of the day by the staff, from the household servants to the gardeners to the groomsmen.
The next morning, Locke rode with Bethany and two burly stablemen Bethany had never met before—where had they come from?—to check on the tenants, expressing his pleasure at how vastly improved things were. Autumn was at their doorsteps and he was convinced all would be fit for the coming winter. His only concern was about the progress of the harvest. Mr. Matheson’s damage to Moorewood had included demanding spring sowing without providing sufficient seed or replacing broken or aging tools and equipment. The tenants had worked hard after Locke provided them what they needed, but the estate hadn’t produced what it had in past years. Bethany worried that a reduced yield could leave them, the tenants, and the surrounding villages short on provisions for the winter and fewer profits for Lord Locke.
Locke acknowledged her fears. “It was a good year, Lady Bethany, and my other holdings are doing exceedingly well. Please work with my solicitor if winter brings trouble. Davies will offset shortcomings at Moorewood with excesses from the others.”
Such reassurance meant Bethany could visit the tenants with confidence. She was glad to see Elway’s boy working hard alongside his father; and Hedley’s girls and little Rob growing, not only in height, but also in health.
In parting, Laura and Beatrice offered Bethany handfuls of bright yellow dandelions, Mrs. Hedley blushing in embarrassment. Bethany winked at her and accepted the “flowers” with grace.
CHAPTER 21
When they arrived home, Locke excused himself to his study, claiming the need to review his and Bethany’s ledgers. He sent his apologies for not joining her for their noon meal and was distracted at supper. It reminded her too much of her first night coming to Moorewood.
Melissa had not yet helped Bethany don her nightdress and robe when Locke knocked at their adjoining door. He stepped inside and sent Melissa away.
“Can you face this again tonight, my dear?”
Steeling herself, she gave a tight nod and joined the Earl of Locke on the comfortable sofa that fronted her bedchamber’s empty fireplace, the butterflies in her stomach having mutated into angry hornets.
Locke slipped an arm around her and rested his cheek on her head. “I’m still hoping for clues, my dear, as to what your father may have given you. I also feel compelled to believe your kidnapping was connected to someone you knew.”
“Why would you think that?” She looked up at him.
“You wouldn’t have accompanied a man you didn’t trust, so he was likely familiar. You can’t remember the other person or persons on the veranda, either, which sometimes happens in the event of a great emotional shock—mostly because you’d never expect the person who betrayed you to do something so evil. Does that seem likely?”
All of it seemed as likely as it was evil. War. Conspiracy. Kidnapping. Duplicity. She let her thoughts drift to Almack’s walkways and the scattered lamps that cast more shadows than light along the street. She had not wanted to go there, but someone on the veranda had done something to reassure her. She paused to reconsider. Yes! There’d been two men on that veranda, one keeping to the shadows and whispering to her escort. Then he walked away and the escort took her out for their walk.
She caught a “glimpse” of her escort’s face at the corner of her mind. She turned to Locke, straining to say a name and still couldn’t find it.
“Don’t force it, Lady Bethany,” he murmured. “Just let it happen. Describe what you see.”
A tall man, dark hair, a soft, fluid voice, stately gestures, she said. She swallowed hard at the thought this was important information.
“Were you enjoying yourself? Frightened?”
“Irritated. I think I’d begun to suspect he wanted to take advantage of me. No. Of his station.”
“And then?”
Bethany flinched and pressed her fist to her brow. “The men who were hiding in the nearby shrubbery grabbed me. I was so confused. I expected the gentleman to defend me, but instead he deserted me! Then the brutes were gagging and binding me and dragging me to the carriage that waited at the street.”
“Did you notice any insignia on the carriage?”
“No, it was a hack. It was too dark to see the driver and they tossed the sack over my head and threw me to the floorboards. One sat inside with me and kicked me if I made any noise. I felt the others climb on top of the carriage.”
Locke stroked her arm to calm her. With pauses between, he asked, “How long did they drive? Did they converse? Give directions to the driver? Ask questions? Were there familiar noises in the background? Scents?”
Bethany loathed the anxiety the questions drove inside of her. It might not have been more than fifteen minutes from Almack’s to the sounds and smells near the piers, she told him. Her abductors said not a word. Then she was tumbled out of the carriage and dragged like a sack of grain inside the old stable.
“You know what I remember of the rest,” Bethany said, fighting with those damnable, tormenting tears.
“But there was a man in the aisle, a man with a cultured voice?”
Bethany froze. Her lips parted in surprise. “Yes. Yes!” She met Locke’s worried gaze, shock coursing through her at the revelation. “It was the man who convinced me to walk with him! I’d not connected him before. He left me to those ruffians but joined us later at the docks. He helped them kidnap me!”
“And he was familiar.”
“I think he was someone ... important.”
“Alright. Let’s work on your kidnappers’ questions. You’ve told me your impressions, but can you remember their exact words?”
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