Passion and Pretense

by Susan Gee Heino

  “Of course she will not be harmed.”

  “Good. I’m going to try to find out what—”

  Yet again, he was interrupted. This time from above as Lady Rastmoor called out from the nearby stairs. Her descending footsteps were sounding nearer.

  “Anthony? What’s all the hubble-bubble? Was someone pounding at this hour?”

  “It was Chesterton, Mother,” Rastmoor called.

  The woman appeared around the corner. “Ah. So I see. What does he want?”

  “Nothing, Mother. He is just leaving.”

  Harris nodded at the lady. She merely sneered in reply.

  “So where is Penelope?” she asked after glancing around the entrance hall to ascertain that Harris had not—this time, at least—been in the process of seducing the girl.

  “Upstairs in her bed,” Rastmoor replied. “As she should be.”

  “No she isn’t,” the woman said.

  “Of course she is,” Rastmoor declared. “I was just speaking with her moments ago.”

  “Well she isn’t there now. I heard some fuss, but when I went to look for her, she wasn’t there. I thought she must be down here with you.”

  Harris felt an icy dread grip him inside. “We have to find her!”

  “But I was just with her,” Rastmoor repeated. “She must be there.”

  “Her room is empty,” Lady Rastmoor repeated, eyeing Harris suspiciously. “What is going on tonight?”

  Rastmoor seemed to wholeheartedly agree with his mother’s suspicions. He glared at Harris with clenched fists as if he would love nothing better than to come to blows.

  “Where is she, Chesterton?”

  “I tell you I don’t know, but if she isn’t—”

  Once again he was cut off. This time from below. A woman’s scream echoed up from some lower portion of the house.

  Harris was already pushing Rastmoor aside and running after it before Lady Rastmoor uttered her own worried yelp. Or perhaps that was due to the fact that Harris trampled her foot in his haste. Either way, he did not pause to attend her. Damn it all, Penelope was in danger and it was his own bloody fault!

  “The kitchen,” Rastmoor declared. “This way!”

  Now it was Harris’s turn to be shoved aside as Rastmoor barreled by. Actually, Harris could not entirely mind being overtaken in such rude fashion. Rastmoor was the one carrying a light. Plus, Harris had to admit that even with a lamp, he had no idea how to get to the kitchen, or wherever else that scream might have come from. At least for the time being, he was dependent on Rastmoor to lead the way.

  He followed the man through darkened passages clearly set apart for servants. They came to a doorway that appeared to lead toward a staircase, but as the dim light of Rastmoor’s lamp fell on it, they paused for the ashen-faced figure who appeared there, climbing unsteadily up the stairs. Harris recognized her immediately.

  The little giggling maid from Burlington’s house. She was most definitely not giggling now. Good heavens, was her lip bloodied?

  She cowered in terror as they approached.

  “I swear, sir, it weren’t my idea! Honest, I’d have never helped them do something like this!”

  Harris spared a quick glance at Rastmoor then looked back at that girl. “What did they do? Who was it?”

  “My Tom thought they was just wanting to pinch a bit, you know, take a little something that his lordship might never even miss. He told me to let them in, so I did. I shouldn’t have, but I did. Then they was asking who was in the house, was everybody asleep, and all!”

  She was talking, but she wasn’t making much sense. Harris had to hold back the urge to shake her. Tom was that stocky footman he’d encountered at Burlington’s, as best he could remember. No wonder the thug hadn’t been at his post there tonight, allowing Harris to creep into the home and overhear the brutish whispers of a plan to kidnap Penelope. But where was she now? He would beat the answers from this chit if he had to.

  Fortunately, she went on before he had to resort to that.

  “I thought they was after the silverware, you know, but instead they went upstairs and took her!”

  Lady Rastmoor had come up behind them and gasped out loud at that.

  “Where did they take her? Which way did they go?” Harris asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head and putting her fingers to her swollen lip. “I tried to stop them, but one of them hit me and threw me down the stairs! They threatened Tom and said if he didn’t do what they wanted, they’d make sure he got the sack…and me worse!”

  Harris wasn’t quite sure that was adequate motivation to make up for this Tom fellow’s involvement in the matter at hand, but he hardly had time to discuss that now. He needed to find Penelope and get her back from these men before it was too late.

  “They can’t be far,” Rastmoor said. “I just left her.”

  His mother was understandably shaken. “Someone has taken Penelope? Is that what this is about?”

  “We’ll find her, Mother,” Rastmoor assured.

  Harris was determined to make that prophetic.

  “You check the house,” he directed Rastmoor. “I’ll see if I can find anything outside.”

  Rastmoor grunted something like approval, so Harris left them. That witless servant girl must know something more about this, but damned if he had the time to drag it out of her. Perhaps Rastmoor would have better luck. In the meantime, Harris was not about to sit around idle. He found the servants’ entrance and bolted out through it.

  The street outside was quiet. One lone carriage rattled in the near distance, just out of sight. Penelope! They must have had a carriage waiting and thrown her into it. He was only moments behind them.

  Running, he turned the nearby corner onto the next street, following the sound. He didn’t get far before two unpleasantly large men stepped out from the shadows. Damn. One had a pistol, the other had a knife. Harris had a headache.

  One man he recognized; the infamous Tom. Damn it. Dear Tom had taken advantage of his little maid’s presence in Rastmoor’s house. He must have used her to get access to Penelope.

  “Looking for something, milord?” the unpleasantly larger of the two men said.

  “Where is she?” Harris demanded. “Where are you taking her?”

  The man didn’t even pretend to wonder what Harris had meant. The brute just looked him up and down—clearly detecting his foolishly weaponless condition—then laughed. Harris could smell his whiskeyed breath even from this distance. Indeed, the man appeared as dangerous as he was foul.

  “If you’d like to find out, then all you need to do is follow us this way.” He motioned with his pistol toward a small, rattle-clap gig parked just up the street.

  It was clear he expected no argument. Well, Harris had never been very good at blindly following directions. He did his best to ignore the pistol and dug in his heels. Crossing his arms and glaring, he offered a simple, “No.”

  The younger and slightly smaller footman shifted nervously. The odiferous man with the pistol did not. He simply grinned and kept his gaze firmly on Harris.

  “They’re taking your ladylove the same place we’s supposed to be hauling you.” He snorted. “Didn’t figure you’d be so easy to find, though. Thanks for saving us some trouble.”

  “I try to be accommodating.”

  “Good. Then get yer sorry fine arse into the carriage, milord, before I have to go wasting a bullet on you.”

  He didn’t know if he could believe the man about the intended destination, but he did believe his threats about shooting him. The lout looked all too eager for that, as a matter of fact. Well, considering he had few options, Harris decided to acquiesce. Besides, that carriage with Penelope in it was getting farther and farther away with every heartbeat. At least if he pretended to go quietly he’d be in a better position to find her than if he rebelled and got shot in the chest.

  “Very well. Take me to her.”

  The nervous Tom seem
ed relieved, though the man with the pistol showed no emotion either way. Harris interpreted this as a good omen. If his abductors were not in perfect unison, there was a chance—slim, perhaps—that he could use that for his advantage. He hung his head and let the men lead him across the street toward a dusty gig that seemed more a pile of refuse than a carriage.

  It was unattended and he could easily see why. The geriatric horse harnessed there seemed to have barely enough life in it to stay on its feet, let alone wander off voluntarily. The decaying gig was in equally unimpressive condition. In fact…was this the same pitiful conveyance Harris had just sold not two days ago? Hell. Fate was too cruel.

  “Get in,” his host demanded.

  Harris complied. Yes, it was the same carriage. It smelled worse now, however.

  The man with the pistol handed him a length of black cloth.

  “Blindfold yourself,” he barked, then climbed inside with Harris.

  Surprisingly, the footman did, too, and took up the reigns. Harris knew it would be asking for trouble to argue, so he simply did as ordered and pulled the cloth around his head. Well, he was rather familiar with London. He’d have a fair idea which way the carriage was going, even if he couldn’t see.

  They were rather tight together in there, and Harris found himself more than a bit uncomfortable as the carriage rattled and clanked into motion. Every slight imperfection—not to mention the rather large ones—was painfully noticeable as Harris was first jabbed in the arm by the pistol and then poked by the footman’s pointed elbow as he slapped the reigns in a vain attempt to encourage the feeble horse to take on something approaching a trot.

  Dear God in heaven, he could only pray they’d get there in time to save Penelope. Hell, he prayed they might get there at all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The light finally broke through to her consciousness and Penelope cracked open one lazy eyelid. Heavens, but she was sleepy. What on earth had she been doing to make her sleep in so? The day must be half over, the way the sun was nearly blinding her.

  But it was the oddest sun she had ever seen. What was going on? She blinked and tried desperately to figure out why she was lying on her floor instead of in her nice, comfortable bed. Slowly, she recalled.

  She was not in her bedroom at all! It was not even morning. Darkness still hovered around her, temporarily blocked from view simply because someone waved a lamp in her face.

  “Oh, wonderful. It appears they’ve not quite dispatched you altogether.”

  A voice? Indeed, a man’s voice, but one she did not at all recognize.

  The lamplight shifted away from her face, and at last she was able to make out her surroundings. She struggled to sit up, but two gentle hands pressed her back.

  “No, just give it a moment or two, my dear. That draught they gave you will take time to wear off,” the voice continued.

  “Draught?” she asked, although it came out more as a muddled grunt.

  “You’re safe. I don’t believe anyone harmed you in any way, but clearly you’ve been drugged with something.”

  Yes, it appeared the voice was correct. She felt as if her arms were a hundred miles long, though she was in no actual pain. Standing up would be quite problematic, though, but surely she could not simply lie here on the floor with a strange man looming nearby. Concentrating, she pushed up into a sitting position.

  The lamp was off to the side now and she could make him out. He was older, yet not at all ancient. His dark hair was well on its way to being gray, and it seemed to have lacked for a comb. For just a moment she found his eyes and felt an odd sense of familiarity. Lord Harry! But no, of course Lord Harry was not here and she did not know this man. It was just the drug still lingering in her body. Clearly when she’d been accosted in the assumed safety of her own home, her attackers had made her senseless. What a dreadful feeling.

  So just how long had she been incoherent with this stranger? And where were her attackers? What did they plan to do to her? She struggled to get her legs to cooperate and to drag herself up off the floor.

  The man merely smiled at her and patted her hand. “Now, now. Rest easy, my dear. I doubt anyone has intention of hurting you.”

  Well, that seemed a ridiculous thing to say. She’d been drugged, abducted, and dumped on a floor! Why on earth would he assume these brutes would have any intention other than hurting her? Oh, but her memory was becoming clearer. She’d been in the corridor outside her bedroom, listening to Anthony when…Gracious! She was in her nightgown!

  It was no use trying to make herself more modest. She was sitting here on a dusty floor with a strange man and wearing nothing more than her nightgown and a thin wrapper. Well, she supposed as she tugged it closer around her, at least she was still wearing it. Thankfully those thugs who grabbed her hadn’t divested her of it.

  “It is a bit chilly, I’m afraid,” the man said, apparently misinterpreting her nervous attention to her attire.

  His own clothing was hopelessly crumpled, and he seemed completely oblivious to that fact. As he moved in the lamplight, she could notice the threadbare condition of his coat, not to mention its outdated styling. She almost smiled, being suddenly reminded of her first glimpse of Lord Harry. This gentleman, however, was not nearly so disheveled. It was obvious, though, he was not one who placed high priority on his appearance. Perhaps he had hardly taken note of hers. She hoped.

  But what were they doing here? Who had taken her? And how was this kindly, rumpled man involved? Surely he was not an enemy, but then what possible other reason could he have for being here with her?

  He was moving around in the shadows, and she fought to make her eyes adjust. What was he doing? Dust and damp swirled in the air as he poked about, making Penelope choke.

  “Here, you may use this to keep warm,” he said, returning with some large bulk of oily cloth.

  It smelled of dead fish. Still, it would at least cover her. This man might not be an immediate threat to her, but at some point she could expect her abductors to return. Who knew what they had in mind, what they might do to a passably attractive—and basically helpless—young woman in a nightgown. Perhaps smelling like refuse and decay was not a bad idea. She pulled the cloth around her and wrinkled her nose.

  “I’m afraid there is a dearth of sweet-scented air here on the docks,” the man said. “But at least you won’t be shivering.”

  “The docks? Is that where we are?”

  “I believe so, although they had me rather in the same condition as you when they brought me here.”

  “And why in heaven’s name have they done that? What do they want us for?”

  He shrugged, causing his ill-fitted coat to rumple even more. “Ransom, I suppose.”

  “Ransom?” That certainly sounded sinister, and perhaps it was a bit optimistic to hope that, after all she’d put him through, Anthony would spend actual money to get her back.

  “That’s why they took me, although the first group to have me were Egyptian loyalists and I really have no idea who this last set were.”

  “Egyptian loyalists?”

  “Yes, it’s a long story, I’m afraid, and one I’d come to believe had been resolved when they gave me up and let me be brought back here, but apparently—”

  “Wait, wait…what are you talking about? Who kidnapped us?”

  “Well, I don’t quite know who is ultimately responsible for bringing you here, but I was initially nabbed in Cairo and held there. You are not from Egypt, I take it?”

  “Heavens, no! I’m from London. We are still in London, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, this is London, although presumably they’ve got us here on the docks so we can be more easily sent elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere? Gracious! Where else would they send us? Egypt?”

  “Oh, I doubt that. I fear I’m no longer welcome there.”

  Could it be the drug was still affecting her brain? Nothing was making sense. Was this man really talking about Egypt? It must be a
dream, although she could certainly never recall a dream smelling quite this bad. But how surprising that the man claimed to come from Egypt, of all places. Surely this could not be mere coincidence. This had to have something to do with the antiquities she’d seen at Lord Burlington’s, with the scarab that Lord Harry had taken from her and…

  Lord Harry. Indeed, he must have a part in this! After all, she’d never met any other criminal, so he could be the only possible link to this sort of thing. And he’d been there, at her house, hadn’t he? Indeed, yes, she knew he had. She could distinctly recall his voice, hearing him downstairs talking with Anthony about…kidnappers.

  Oh! And there had been that letter from Maria…she’d nearly forgotten. Maria had eloped with Lord Harry, but then he’d arrived and begun talking about kidnappers and she’d been so worried that something dreadful had happened to Maria and…

  But apparently the kidnapping discussion had not been about Maria. Drat! Lord Harry had been talking about kidnapping her. Yet why would he have discussed it with Anthony if he hoped to get away with it? Perhaps he’d been trying to distract Anthony while his hired henchmen carted her away. Yes, that seemed logical. But then what had happened to Maria? And where was poor Anthony?

  She was breathing rapidly the more she thought of it all. Lord Harry had done this—there could be no other explanation. He stole her heart, he stole her necklace, and now he’d gone and stolen her. For ransom, this gentleman had said. Yes, that sounded like something Lord Harry would do.

  She wished to heaven that she’d been born a man so she might be able to use a few of the choice words she’d heard Anthony employ a time or two when he’d been angry and thought gentle ears were not around. Drat! and Botheration! hardly seemed adequate to sum up her emotions just now. Indeed, she was furious. A bit frightened, too. And undeniably heartbroken. Yes, she could indeed wish she’d been born male. She’d have never even noticed that handsome blackguard in the first place.

  Instead, all she seemed able to do in her female state was pull her knees up toward her chest, hug them tightly, and cry. It was most cowardly and surely most annoying. She did not wish to cry, but her eyes blurred and her nose got all itchy just the same.