by Sue London
* * *
Robert went on alert as Charlie galloped back.
“One of the horses from Sabre’s team is in front of the inn,” his brother reported.
“Are you certain?” the duke asked.
Charlie was offended. “I recognize my horses as easily as I do family members.”
Robert looked at the men around him. “Gideon, you and Casimir go the rear of the inn, should we need assistance from that quarter. Your grace, if you could stay mounted to ensure that we can give chase to anyone who should try to escape by road?”
The duke nodded.
“Charlie and I will go in to find out what is going on.”
“Be careful,” the earl admonished.
“You as well,” Robert said, spurring his horse forward. He waited until the two men had gone around to the back of the building before entering the front door of the inn. The entry was dim and smelled mildly of fish and grease. He heard voices rumbling in what he assumed was the tavern. Walking down a short, dark hallway, they found the public room. It had a low ceiling of dark timbers and smoke stained walls. A large fireplace dominated one side of the room and no less than ten men crowded around two large tables. Looking around the room, Robert didn’t see anyone who could be his sister, not even with her best disguises.
A voice called out, “Master Charlie?”
Robert didn’t recognize the voice at first, most likely as it was pinched from tension, but he recognized John easily enough when the man stumbled from the corner. John saw Robert, then, as well. The combination of relief and terror on the man’s face was confirmation enough for Robert that John knew precisely what had happened.
“Innkeep! We require a private sitting room.”
A matron hustled out from a nearby hall. “Begging your pardon, milord, but we don’t as such-”
“My friends and I require a private sitting room for the next hour or so. You will provide that.”
“Perhaps you could use our family-”
“That will be adequate. Convey us there, please.” Turning to Charlie, Robert said. “Get the other men. We will have this story once and make our plans.”
Charlie nodded and left the way they had come.
Although looking somewhat aghast at Robert’s highhanded manner, the innkeep ushered him and John through more dark hallways and unlocked a doorway. “Just in here, milord.”
Robert took in the shabby, if homey room at a glance and nodded to the matron.
“Will you and your men need something to eat, milord?”
“Yes, that would be useful.”
She bowed out of the room, leaving Robert with his sister’s most loyal retainer, her carriage driver. John seemed intent on looking anywhere other than Robert himself. Although upset, the man didn’t seem overcome with grief, as Robert would expect him to be if Sabre had come to a bad end. That served to loosen some of the tension Robert had felt growing as their search dragged on.
Apparently unable to stand the silence, John said, “Mr. Bittlesworth, I never meant-”
“Wait.” Robert insisted.
John bit his lip and nodded. In a few moments the rest of the men filed into the room. As soon as the duke saw the coachman he demanded, “Where is she?”
Having grown up in the Bittlesworth household, John looked at Robert first for a nod before starting.
“We were set upon in the woods, halfway to Belle Fleur, your grace. Nine men on horseback. They had come for her grace. She told me to do as they asked, and we took the east road.” John twisted his cap in his hands. “We traveled for some hours, your grace, to a dock.”
Robert cut in. “They’re on a ship?”
John nodded. “Yes, sir. Boarded at the coast near here not two hours ago.”
Gideon swore and ran his hands through his hair.
“How did you come to be here?” Robert asked.
“At the dock, her grace saved me. Their leader was going to kill me and she pulled a gun on him, sir.”
The duke gave a sickly smile. “Yes, that sounds like her.”
“He didn’t look too happy about it, I can say that, your grace. But that other lady, the red-haired one, spoke to him, too, and that’s when her grace told me I had to leave.” John’s voice cracked. “I didn’t want to, your grace, but..”
The duke put a hand on the driver’s shoulder. “It’s good you did, John, otherwise we wouldn’t know where to look for them.”
“On the ocean,” Gideon groused. “That helps such a great deal.”
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you much more, my Lord. The men didn’t speak English other than the leader, so I don’t know what they were saying. It was French, I think.”
Robert turned to Casimir. “Your friend LeBeau?”
“I would prefer you didn’t call him my friend, but as likely as not.”
“There is one more thing,” John said. “Once I was some distance away I heard a gunshot, and then he sent riders after me. That was when I cut Brutus loose to ride. This was the first public house I came to and I thought to hide here while Brutus rested.”
“Good man,” Charlie said. Looking over to Robert he said, “See? God didn’t want you tearing all of England apart.”
Robert was in no mood for his brother’s good-natured teasing, as one phrase kept repeating in his mind. 'That other lady, the red-haired one, spoke to him, too.’ It seemed likely that Imogen was involved. That she had, indeed, worked with LeBeau on this trap as he feared. That he had unwittingly drawn an asp close to his family.
“Charlie, you need to go home.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
A knock at the door was unexpected enough that the men jumped. Casimir recovered and opened the door to find the matron and her son bringing in food. Robert didn’t want to eat. His sister was still missing, in danger, and it was his fault. One of the Haberdashers may have been shot. Perhaps Sabre herself? Had it been Miss Grant to pull the trigger? His fear burned like a cinder in the back of his throat. His lover had captured his sister to use against him, but he would be damned if he would sacrifice Charlie as well. Not able to stand the cramped quarters and press of people any longer, Robert quit the room.
* * *
Casimir watched Robert Bittlesworth leave the room and turned to the man’s brother. “Where is he going?”
Charlie finished off a meat pasty and a good draught of his ale. “That’s an excellent question.”
“Shouldn’t we find out?”
“In a moment. Pursuing Robert too quickly when he’s in a temper is a fine way to get bitten.”
“That’s him in a temper?”
“One of the worst I’ve ever seen. It’s too bad we don’t have a war to distract him.”
Casimir rested his shoulder against the wall and considered the younger Bittlesworth brother. Tall and athletic. Fair where his siblings were dark. Almost unfailingly cheerful. If Casimir were not a creature attenuated to seeking advantage, it was Charlie who would be the most logical friend for him among all the men here. They were similar in that they could usually find the humor in any situation.
“The two most distracting things,” Casimir said, “are war and women.”
Charlie finished his ale. “I’m worried that he’s already distracted by the latter.”
“His lover? This Miss Grant?”
“Sabre told me that this Miss Grant has made Robert change his rules.”
“And that is a bad thing?”
Charlie shrugged. “Good? Bad? Who am I to say? But different. And Robert doesn’t do different.”
“Ah? What does Robert do?” Casimir asked.
“Control.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Imogen had spent a good deal of her life on ships, so she knew that the horrid feeling in the pit of her stomach was dread rather than seasickness. In the close quarters of the boat, she felt the press of the men’s feelings constantly. Their avarice and lust had washed over her for hours, a
nd she knew that she would never have survived a life immersed in the baser parts of society. She tried to focus, instead, on the energy of the three women with her. They seemed unconcerned with the rough men, preferring to chat amongst themselves as though standing at a ton ball, instead in a cabin of a dirty Channel boat in the middle of the night. It should not have taken so long to cross the Channel, and Imogen imagined they were sailing near the coast looking for a particular port. A talent usually only practiced by smugglers and thieves.
“Don't you agree, Miss Grant?”
Imogen was pulled from her reverie by the duchess's voice.
“Beg pardon?”
“The fashionable colors for young ladies are far too dull.”
Imogen had to grin. Who discussed fashion in such dire circumstances? The Duchess of Beloin, it would seem. “I'm not to be trusted on the subject of color, your grace. My travels have made me favor the bold fabrics of China and India.”
The duchess gasped and grabbed the countess's arm. For a moment Imogen was scared by the wave of shock, but then she heard the duchess say, “That's what I want. Red Chinese silk.”
“With a pattern?” Imogen asked.
“Yes, some sort of a pattern, something classic.”
“I have a bolt of red with trees and cherry blossoms,” Imogen said. “It's yours if we make it out of here alive.”
“Really! Well, I must have it.”
Imogen glanced at a sailor that passed far too close. “Just remember my conditions.”
Sabre smiled. “You'll make a fine viscountess.”
“I have no interest in being a viscountess.”
“I didn't want to be a countess,” their pregnant friend offered.
“Sabre definitely wanted to be a duchess,” the blonde one added.
“I was willing to settle for it, seeing as I got Quince in the bargain,” the duchess agreed.
“You realize you're all mad,” Imogen said.
“Quite mad,” the duchess agreed with a smile.
While the women continued to chatter, the blonde, George, took the duchess's arm and began to trace a pattern on it with her fingertip. Imogen couldn't imagine what the two might be doing, but as they seemed intent on making it appear they were empty-headed Society misses she wasn't about to ask. Then she heard the Captain call for the ship to be made ready for dock and knew that the next challenge in their trial was upon them.
* * *
Robert looked up at the stars and counseled himself to be calm. The men needed him to lead them. To keep them focused, keep them from pursuing misguided plans. Not that he knew where they were going yet. A ship. It could mean anything from a simple trip up the English coast to sailing across to the continent to, well, going anywhere. He needed to think. To stop obsessing over Miss Grant's betrayal. How had he ever believed himself a good judge of character? First Sims, now Miss Grant. First nearly losing George, now losing all of them. After Sims he should have become more circumspect, less sure of his own judgment.
With the thought of Sims, all of his dormant rage and grief rose up within him. Damn the man. Damn him for his betrayal and for what he had wrought. Yes, Robert had blood on his hands, as Miss Grant had accused. None of it innocent blood, but there was so much of it. Death and betrayal and lies within lies. That was all his life had become.
“Robert?”
His brother's voice carried quietly in the chilly night air, but it still made Robert suck in a breath. He had been so trapped in his own thoughts that he hadn't heard Charlie approach.
“Yes?” he asked tersely.
“John says he can show us where the boat launched from. He's hopeful we can find the carriage and horses as well.”
“Very well.”
“Do you still want me to go home?”
Robert was silent for a moment, pondering. He wouldn't risk Charlie. Couldn't. He had been protecting his brother his whole life. “I haven't decided yet,” he admitted.
“Good enough. John and I will ready the horses. We should be able to ride out within an hour.”
“I thought you wanted to stop for the night.”
“That was when I thought there wasn't any particular place for us to go.”
“Seeing where the ship set sail isn't likely to give us the information we need.”
Charlie clapped him on the shoulder. “One step at a time, eh? Have something to eat while I work on the horses.”
It was a good reminder that while Robert excelled at planning, Charlie excelled at taking life one day at a time. “You mean you left something on the sideboard?”
“There are a few crumbs you might sustain yourself with. Provided Gideon didn't eat them already.”
“I assumed he would be drinking his dinner.”
“There's a fair bit of that, but his angel is hovering over him.”
“Then I'd best go in before they finish it all off.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
After docking, there had been an interminable wait as transportation was secured. Imogen fretted while the Haberdashers continued to chat. They were bundled into another carriage, but this time the leader of their abductors joined them. He sat between Sabre and George. Imogen sat beside Jack and they threaded their fingers together, each wanting to give and receive comfort.
“So, your grace,” the brigand said, back to his falsely genial tone, “introduce me to your friends.”
“Well, this is George and Jack and Gen. Who might you be, sir?”
“You may call me Jean. But surely these women must be of some import to travel with a duchess?”
“Friends from Derbyshire, and cousin of friends in London.”
“It sounds like you have a great many friends, your grace.”
“I assure you that I do.”
“I have only to deliver you to my employer. Perhaps I will hold on to your friends and see what value they might be to me.”
Imogen felt her stomach drop to her knees. She couldn't decide which was worse, delivery unto this mysterious employer, or remaining with this man who set her teeth on edge and made her feel like washing to remove the memory of him.
“I must warn you that if your employer is my father, he would be most put out if harm came to any of these women.”
Her statement surprised a chuckle out of Jean. “You think your own father would do this thing?”
“If you think he wouldn't, then you obviously haven't met him.”
“My apologies, little feisty one, but perhaps I have not met your father.”
“The man you work for,” the countess said, “is he of middling height, plain, and wears a pin about this size?” She held up her fingers to form a small circle. “It looks something like a snake swallowing its tail and has a red stone in the center.”
That served to sober their captor. “You know this man?”
“My husband and I banished him from England,” Sabre said. “We warned him that if he should try to interfere with our affairs again that he would come to an unpleasant end. Obviously he did not believe us.”
“For one so tiny and,” the brigand’s eyes swept over the duchess’s assets appreciatively, “feminine, you have a terrible mouth. This father you speak of, perhaps he did not discipline you enough?”
“I would never dream of speaking to my father the way I speak to you. I respect him.”
Imogen could see the man’s anger flare again and thought that the only reason he didn’t immediately strike Sabre was the fact that he was too tightly wedged between the two women on the seat. Instead, he put his hand on the duchess’s throat. “You will learn to respect me.”
Imogen sat forward and put her hand on the brigand’s arm. “Stop it! Please.”
His arm flew, backhanding her and sending her crashing against the seat. Her face felt like it was on fire and her head ached where it rapped against the carriage wall. Tears sprang to her eyes. She wasn’t sure quite how the duchess stood up so quickly after the man hit her earlier.
She heard the young noblewoman’s voice, brusque and vicious. “Treat me how you like, but if you touch her again it will be to forfeit your life.”
“Stop threatening me, you mewling sow.”
“They aren’t threats, they’re warnings.”
He turned more fully toward the duchess, putting his hand more securely on her throat. Imogen could feel his murderous rage. She tried to struggle forward again, but the countess held her back.
The blonde called out, “Sabre?”
The duchess nodded, but the blonde couldn’t see her. The countess said tightly, “Yes, George.”
It was a moment before Imogen realized quite what had happened. The blonde drew the man’s own knife from his belt and stabbed him in quick jabs to his back. So quick, that he didn’t react at first. The pain sliced through him and Imogen could feel it herself. When he turned to face the blade, the blonde lunged with all of her weight behind her, driving the knife up though his throat. Blood sprayed, hot and thick. He collapsed back against the duchess, his body writhing and twitching. Imogen felt bile rise up. The violence and death washed over her, through her, like waves of a dirty tide. The two women pushed him to the floor while the countess held Imogen close. She realized she was whimpering and curling up against the calm, steady presence of the woman next to her.
“Have a care,” the countess said. “Miss Grant told us that she’s very sensitive.”
“I’m very sensitive,” the duchess countered, her voice cold and vicious. “Having myself and my friends abducted upsets me.”
“Only eight left,” the blonde pointed out.
“And possibly no real leader among them,” the countess added.
The carriage began to slow. “Drat,” the duchess said, peeking out the window, “just as we were considering a new plan, it seems we’ve arrived.”
“We could have surprise on our side if we come out fighting,” George pointed out.
