by Liz Carlyle
Isabella looked back to see Hepplewood mounting up, throwing his long, booted leg smoothly across the saddle and setting off behind them.
“Bella,” said Georgina, “look at Lissie’s tiny checkers!”
Isabella turned around to admire the little rosewood box that opened to reveal a baize game board. Checkers the size of a farthing appeared to have been carved of ebony and ivory, their undersides roughened to stick to the baize.
“How very clever,” she said.
“Those might turn a pretty profit,” mused Jemima, bending over the board. “And well-read children are often well traveled, too. What do you think, Bella?”
“I think you have a good eye,” said Isabella, giving the girl a swift smile.
Soon books and magazines were drawn out, and the children settled happily into travel. It was hardly an arduous journey; the weather was fine and the roads essentially empty. Traveling with children as they were, Hepplewood’s wish to travel straight to Town was not granted, but their brief stop at a coaching inn took less than a quarter hour.
Caroline and Jemima read the entire way, pausing sometimes to exchange books and share passages, while the younger girls played with the checkers, or rolled Pickles back and forth on the carriage floor.
Isabella merely stared through the glass at the villages spinning past and tried to focus on the week ahead and her return to normal life—assuming life could ever be normal again. Still, Jemima’s remark had returned her mind to the urgency of earning a living. Business was good but not brisk, according to Mrs. Barbour. There were bills to pay and orders to receive and shelve.
On Thursday, the crate of mathematical blocks she had ordered while at Greenwood was due. They would show to good effect, she thought, in the shop’s bow window.
But she could not long focus on any of these important matters, for her traitorous mind kept returning to Hepplewood. She felt far more comforted by his hard, passionate kiss in the carriage drive than was wise.
Still, there was a great deal he was not telling her. His unease was about something more than Everett’s perfidy. The feeling was growing in intensity as London neared.
Money, Anne had said. But Georgina had none; Isabella was quite, quite sure. And had Jemima landed some strange windfall, the greedy Sir Charlton would have long ago snatched her away.
What else could be going on? She wracked her brain, and slowly a cold fear began to grip her.
Whatever his motivation, could Everett have initiated his case in Chancery? Could her leaving London have pushed him over the edge rather than allow his temper time to cool? And could Hepplewood have learnt of such a thing when she herself knew nothing?
Of course he could. He was a powerful man; a peer of the realm. There was little he could not discover, most likely, if he put his mind to it.
Could that be the business Mr. Jervis was seeing to? It seemed highly unlikely.
Oh, her head was beginning to pound! She felt ashamed of herself. She was doing just what Hepplewood had told her never to do—taking the counsel of her fears. Whatever Everett was up to, Hepplewood would ferret it out and help her get through it. Perhaps she should ask him to loan her one of those massive, freshly polished carriage pistols and simply shoot Everett.
Isabella forced herself to relax and settle back against the banquette, watching the girls play until they tired of their game. Then she opened a book of fairy tales and read aloud until Georgie curled up against her on the seat and drifted off to sleep. Lissie followed suit, tucking against Georgie like a drowsy puppy.
With Jemima and Caroline engaged in their own books, Isabella simply sat threading her fingers over and over through Georgie’s curly, baby-fine hair. Though Anne hadn’t meant anything unkind by her words, it had stung a little to hear her call Jemma and Georgie burdens.
They were not burdens. Indeed, they had never been anything less than a pure joy to Isabella—and it would be a cold day in hell before she would let them go to a man like Everett, for whatever reason.
“You are nibbling your thumbnail again,” Jemima whispered across the carriage.
“I am, Jemma, aren’t I?” Isabella twisted her hands together in her lap. “A bad habit.”
Jemima’s too-old eyes appraised her. “Is everything all right, Bella?”
“Yes, fine, sweet. I just—”
She was jolted from her explanation when Marsh abruptly stopped the carriage. Looking out, she saw they were entering the heavier traffic of London. The girls, stirred by the sudden lack of motion, began to rouse. As Marsh picked up the pace again, Isabella set about tidying Georgina and Lissie’s hair as Jemima began to pack up their belongings.
In Brompton Road, they made their turn without Anne’s carriage, for it had split off somewhere north of Hyde Park, taking the baggage cart along with it, since it had been decided Isabella’s trunk would be brought down last.
By noon, they were drawing up before the bookshop. Isabella saw that the little Closed sign hung in the window. Mrs. Barbour had likely gone up for a cup of tea or to put something in the oven.
The girls said their somewhat tearful good-byes and climbed out, Hepplewood handing the two of them down like the grandest of ladies. As Jemima thanked him very prettily for his hospitality, Isabella pawed through her reticule for the key.
“Ah!” She extracted it triumphantly.
“Isabella?” Hepplewood’s voice came musingly from the pavement. “Have you a key to the garden gate, by chance?”
She leaned out to see him looking up at the dollhouse a little fretfully.
“Not with me,” she said.
“Well, it’ll not go through, my lord,” said Marsh from atop the carriage. “I can measure with a rope, but I’m telling you, it’s too big for that door.”
“But it will go in through Mrs. Aldridge’s garden,” said Hepplewood confidently. “Isabella, we had better take it round. Otherwise we’re going to lose Georgie’s chimney.”
“Jemma,” said Isabella, handing out the key, “take Georgina upstairs and ask Barby to come down and let us in through the back, won’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said her sister.
Hepplewood shut the carriage door, and as soon as Jemima had unlocked the door to the bookshop, the carriage set off around the block. Isabella settled back into her seat with Lissie and Caroline, who looked suddenly bereft.
“I want to go back to Greenwood with Georgie,” said Lissie a little petulantly. “London stinks.”
“It does smell, doesn’t it?” Isabella smiled a little dotingly at the girl. “You are a lucky young lady, Lissie, to have Greenwood as one of your homes.”
The coach lurched right as they made the corner. Once the coachman had wedged the massive vehicle into the alleyway, it was a simple matter for the men to unfasten Yardley’s elaborate ropes.
The garden gate was still shut. Isabella tried it and found it locked.
The dollhouse was cumbersome, Hepplewood assured her, but not heavy. They lifted it gingerly down, with Isabella watching the underside.
“Umph,” grunted Hepplewood, hefting it upright. “Try the door again, my dear.”
“Still locked.” This time she knocked hard on the door. “Mrs. Barbour? Mrs. Barbour!”
There was no answer. Caroline and Lissie were hanging out the coach window now. Isabella looked at Hepplewood, who, to his credit, did not look remotely impatient.
She banged again, this time with the heel of her hand. Nothing.
“Set it down in the alley,” she said. “I had better go round. Jemma misunderstood me.”
“We’re fine,” said Hepplewood.
But the elderly Marsh was not fine; Isabella could see him wincing in discomfort as they maneuvered the cumbersome thing back from the gate.
Isabella turned and dashed back down the alley, round the corner, and to the shop door.
The Closed sign still hung in the bow window, but the vestibule door was unlocked. Isabella pushed it open, hiked up he
r skirts, and hastened up the stairs.
Mrs. Barbour was just coming out the door, a piece of buttered bread still in her hand.
“Have you got it?” said Isabella.
Mrs. Barbour shrieked, flinging the bread high. “Oh, Miss Bella!” she cried, spewing crumbs as she spun about. “Scared the life out o’ me, you did! Just nipped in for a bite of nuncheon.”
“I’m so sorry,” Isabella said, reaching up the steps. “Just give me the key. They are holding the blasted thing in the alley.”
Mrs. Barbour’s brow furrowed. “Aye, miss? Holding what?”
“Georgina’s dollhouse.” Suddenly Isabella’s knees went weak. “Lord Hepplewood is . . . is holding Georgie’s dollhouse.”
Mrs. Barbour’s furrow deepened.
Suddenly Isabella could not get her breath. “Oh, dear God,” she said, setting a hand over her heart. “Barby—the key. Jemima came up for the key. Yes?”
But Mrs. Barbour just shook her head. “Why, bless me, no, miss,” she said. “I’d no notion any of you was back a’tall.”
Isabella’s hand clutched at the banister. And then she was screaming for Jemima. Screaming so loud it filled the darkened stairwell as she rushed back into the street.
The next few minutes passed as if in a blur. Her scream brought Hepplewood round the corner, hooves pounding. Flinging himself from the saddle, he reached Isabella in three strides.
By the time he’d made sense of her panic, the baggage cart had drawn up, and Marsh with the carriage soon after it.
“Mills!” he barked at the footman who climbed off the cart. “Forget the baggage. Get Lissie and Caroline from the coach and take them back to Clarges Street. And don’t let them out of your sight, do you hear me?”
He turned back to Isabella. Standing now in the vestibule door, she had bent down to pick up something gold and glittering.
“The front door key!” she sobbed. “Dear God, Jemma got the door open, then dropped the key! But she is so careful. Anthony, it is Everett! He has taken them! I know it!”
He was looking up and down the street assessingly. “Bloody damned right it’s him,” he said grimly. “But he cannot have gotten far.”
Suddenly, the coachman appeared at the earl’s side. “My lord, what can I do?”
“Forget the dollhouse for now, Marsh,” he ordered. “Go up and down the street banging on doors until you find someone who saw those girls getting into a carriage. I want a description of it.”
Isabella looked about. “On Brompton Road,” she said swiftly, pointing. “The greengrocer’s wife. She was sweeping the doorstep. Ask her.”
“Aye, ma’am,” said the coachman, hobbling away.
Isabella tried to think, pressing her fingertips into her temples. “Everett will be driving Papa’s old traveling coach,” she whispered. “He would not dare use an open carriage. It is dull and black, with mustard-colored wheels. Black and gold livery.”
“It is remotely possible he has taken them on foot,” he said, “but I doubt it.”
“Jemima would never go with Everett,” she declared. “He would have to drag her. He could not drag two children through Knightsbridge, Anthony, in broad daylight—could he? Oh, dear God! I shall never get my girls back!”
“You will have them back,” said Hepplewood grimly, “before this day is out, depend on it. The bastard is taking them down to Thornhill.”
“You cannot be sure,” Isabella cried. “He . . . He has kidnapped them! He may go into hiding!”
“Sadly, he has not kidnapped them—not Georgina, at any rate,” he said. “He has the law—or a bit of it—on his side. But then there is reality.”
“Reality?”
“Never mind, my love,” he said. “He is taking them to Thornhill. Because he expects and wants you to follow. They are safe enough for now. Likely he has that conniving mother of his with him.”
“He wants me to follow?” Isabella cried. “Why? What kind of logic is that?”
“Because the bastard has a special license in his pocket this very minute,” Hepplewood gritted. “I’d wager half my fortune on it.”
“A . . . A marriage license?” she said incredulously.
Suddenly, he turned and seized her hands. “Isabella, you will not do it,” he ordered her. “Do not panic. You will not marry that man. Promise me.”
She looked up at him through tearing eyes and said nothing.
How could she promise anyone anything? The worst had happened. She had pressed her luck. Misjudged and dawdled. And now even fleeing England was not an option.
“Dear God, what have I done?” she whispered, blinking back the tears.
He squeezed her hands hard. “This is not your fault,” he said. “Even I did not dream the devil would stoop to something so bold. He is desperate indeed.”
“But . . . why?”
“Money,” said Hepplewood beneath his breath. “Always, with his sort, it is about money.”
“But the girls haven’t any money,” she cried. “Anthony, what is happening?”
“What is happening is that I am going after Jemma and Georgie,” he said, releasing her hands and striding off in the direction of the cart.
“Papa!” cried Lissie, who was being carried by the footman, “why is Mills taking us?”
Hepplewood seized his daughter’s hands. “Lissie, I need the coach,” he said. “And I need you to be extra, extra good for a few hours. Georgie and Jemma are lost, and I must find them. You and Caroline go back to Clarges Street and wait for me, all right?”
The child nodded. “Yes, Papa,” she said, eyes suddenly anxious. “Will you bring Georgie home to Clarges Street?”
He cut a swift glance over his shoulder at Isabella. “I might,” he said. “We shall see. Go now, and be good, minx.”
“I will watch her, sir,” said Caroline Aldridge.
“Good girls, both of you,” he said, peeling a banknote from a wad he’d drawn from his pocket. “Mills, give me your whip and go and find yourself another. Drive these girls home, and hand them personally into Seawell’s care—oh, and find Jervis if he’s got home. Tell him what has happened. That Tafford has taken the children. He’ll know what to do.”
“Aye, sir.” The footman tugged at his forelock.
“Should we call the police?” uttered Isabella as the cart drove away.
“No, it is the very last thing we should do.” Hepplewood was lashing the whip to his saddle as he spoke over his shoulder. “Isabella, you must let me deal with Tafford. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Do you trust me?”
She merely wrung her hands. “Yes.”
His task finished, Hepplewood turned on his heel and marched back toward her. “Isabella, listen to me,” he said. “I know what he is up to. Do you trust me to deal with this? Do you empower me to act on your behalf and get those girls back?”
“Yes, but I am coming with—”
“You are not,” he ordered. “You don’t want to be a part of this if it turns ugly—which it will. You will go inside the house and pour yourself a brandy. Then wait.”
“No,” she said, gathering herself. “I will not simply sit here whilst my sisters are being carried off by that—that villain.”
Just then Mrs. Barbour came huffing and puffing her way back up the street. “No one that direction’s seen a thing, my lord,” she said to Hepplewood, clearly discerning who was in charge. “Couldn’t have gone out by Hyde Park, shouldn’t think. Shall I take Miss Bella upstairs?”
“In a moment,” he said curtly.
The coachman was hastening back from Brompton Road. “Black coach wiv brownish wheels went out that a’way wiv a screaming child in it,” he said, “and turned right.”
“He is trying to skirt much of Town, but he has to cross the river.” Hepplewood seized the coachman’s arm and drew him near. “Come here and listen carefully,” he said to Marsh. “Now, Isabella, tell us how Tafford will go down to Thornhill from that direction? What is the quickes
t way? What roads through what villages?”
“Due south, through Croydon,” she said. “It is not hard. There aren’t too many options if he wishes to make any speed.” Swiftly, she told them village by village, the coachman listening.
Hepplewood dropped her hands again. “I’ll catch him within the hour on Colossus,” he said confidently, going to his saddlebags. “You, Marsh, come on my heels. And take this up on the box with you.”
Here, he handed out one of the carriage pistols.
“It’s loaded, mind, but not cocked,” Hepplewood said. “I’ve the mate on the other side. On the off chance you find him first, hold the gun to his head—but mind the mother, for she’s got the only brain in the family. Tell her if she so much as twitches, you’ll kill Tafford.”
“Good God, sir,” said the coachman.
“Don’t actually kill him,” said Hepplewood. “Shoot him in the foot first. Now go. I’ll pass you shortly.”
“Y-yes, sir.” The coachman rammed the big gun down the back of his trousers and climbed up on his box.
“And please, please don’t shoot Brooks!” Isabella cried after him. “He’s Papa’s former coachman. He’s very kind; he will help you if he can.”
Marsh tugged his forelock by way of acknowledgement. “Horses are weary, sir,” he called down. “But we’ll be along, I promise.”
“Have a care, sir,” Mrs. Barbour said. “He’s up to wickedness, that one. Been here three days running with that mother of his in tow.”
“Dear God,” said Isabella again.
But Mr. Marsh and the coach were already rumbling back toward Brompton Road.
Mrs. Barbour looked back and forth between Isabella and Hepplewood. “I’d best go put the kettle on,” she murmured, turning and going inside to the stairs.
Gently, Hepplewood drew Isabella into the shadows of the vestibule and set the backs of his fingers to her cheek. “Go up and lie down, my dear,” he said. “I’ll catch Tafford, and he’ll have the devil to pay then, I promise you.”
“I cannot,” she said. “There must be something I can do?”
