“My lord. I was more than willing to become your wife.” Well, she had been before the bizarre events of the afternoon had begun to unfold. “Untie me—there’s no need for…whatever it is you are planning.” She could not help glancing at the implement he was holding.
He followed her gaze, then let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, don’t fear, this particular instrument is not for you. I, however, find it’s rather crucial—especially under the circumstances. Give me a moment, and then we can go about our business together.”
He set the item down and drew a small pouch from his pocket, the type gentlemen used to carry tobacco. He opened it and removed a shaving of something black and solid. Ah—the metal object was a long, thin pipe, ornamented with filigree. He carefully filled the tiny bowl, sent her a thoughtful glance, and added a bit more. With a nod of satisfaction he licked his fingers and closed the pouch.
Taking advantage of his distraction, Caroline worked her left wrist against the strap imprisoning it. It felt looser. Two or three hard yanks would probably free her, but what then? She slid her gaze back to the viscount.
He was holding the small lamp beneath the bowl of the pipe. As he inhaled, a look of bliss spread over his face. A cloying scent drifted to her—one not completely unfamiliar. She realized she had caught the same faint aroma trapped in his hair and clothing several times before.
“Opium, my lord?” She was not as surprised as she might have been. It all began to make sense: his sudden tremblings, the way he hurried away after their outings. The clues had been there all along. Certainly some members of the ton were firm believers in their tonics and tinctures of laudanum. Still, eating opium was one thing, smoking it was quite another.
He gave her an open smile. “Do you despise me for my vice? You should not. It’s very calmative, especially in difficult situations. Not that I don’t find you attractive, Caroline, but performing under these circumstances…you understand the pressure.”
“Did you…did you ever care about me at all?”
“Of course.” He sounded surprised. “I truly have come to admire you. Although after we are married, I’m afraid your boarding school is going to have to close. I’ll be needing the money for my own…interests.” He smiled down at his pipe.
“After we are married?”
“Here.” He stepped unsteadily to the bed. “Take some. It will make this easier for you.”
She shook her head emphatically.
“No? A pity to waste it.” He set the stem to his mouth and inhaled, long and deep, swirling the lamp beneath. A dreamy look settled over his face, his lids half closed. Finally he set the pipe back on the table. “Time to get to it, my dear. Just imagine it is our wedding night—only a bit early.” He swayed and caught himself, one hand on the bedpost. “Our marriage bed.”
She watched in horror as he fumbled at his breeches.
“My lord! There is no need to be hasty.” She began tugging in earnest at her bonds. “Untie me and I’m sure we can discuss this rationally. You are a gentleman. There is really no need for, for…”
“Unfortunately, there is.” He blinked down at her, his smile still fixed on his face. “I may be a gentleman, but I’m rather a hard-pressed one at present. You see, I have no money. Don’t look so shocked, my dear. It’s a common occurrence. Things have come to a head, and—well, let’s just say it’s best I secure my interest in you promptly.”
Her stomach twisted. How could he? She had believed him to be a good man—but clearly there were things she ought to have known about Viscount Keefe. She jerked her feet, but they, too, were bound tightly. She swallowed back the sharp sting of fear.
“And now…” He paused.
Caroline squeezed her eyes shut, then shuddered as his weight came down across her, pressing her into the mattress. She grit her teeth and waited. And waited. It was becoming difficult to breathe.
She opened her eyes. Viscount Keefe’s face was inches from her own, his eyes closed, a beatific expression on his face.
“Viscount Keefe?”
The man was unconscious, of all things. The extra opium. He began to snore, the oaf. She had to get free. She bucked, trying to dislodge him, but he was too heavy. Maybe if she wiggled to the side, as far as the tethers would allow…Yes. She was only partially trapped by him now. She drew in a deep breath.
One hard yank. Another. She bit her lip as the strap abraded her wrist. Dear heavens, please, please. She folded her fingers together and pulled, ignoring the pain as she forced her hand to compress through the confining loop. Tight, too tight, then suddenly slack as her hand slipped free.
Her skin burned, her fingers were squeezed bloodless, but she had her arm back. She wrung her hand out, two sharp shakes, then pushed at the viscount with all her strength, moving him enough that she could turn her body sideways and reach her other hand. Awkward, untying knots with her left hand, but they were not as tight as she had feared.
Her unconscious suitor was still partially pinning her to the bed, but Caroline was able to scoot out from under him. A ripping sound, but she could hardly care about the condition of her skirts. He seemed oblivious to the world, one hand upflung temptingly near the strap she had just untied.
It was easy enough to pull his arm a bit higher. Satisfaction flared through her as she cinched the leather tight about his wrist. There. See how he liked being cooked in his own sauce. Marry him, indeed!
She bent, working to free her ankles. Nearly free…
A thud, from the front of the house. The front door closing. Someone was coming. Her heart raced as her fingers fumbled over the knots. She bit back her frustration and tried to keep her hands from trembling as she pulled the last strap off. She sprang to her feet and sent one wild glance at the door. Should she stay?
No. Whoever was coming would be in league with the viscount. A witness to her staged compromise, no doubt. There would be no help from that side of the door.
She pivoted. The window. Thank heavens it opened smoothly. She flung her leg over, barely caring what was below, just thankful she was on the ground floor. A twiggy bush broke her half leap from the sill, and her torn dress caught on the branches. Dratted clothing! She yanked herself free, picked up her ruined skirts, and ran, making for the front of the house, the safety of the street.
Luck was still with her. A hansom cab loitered at the corner. Passengers or no, this was her escape. She hurried up to it.
“Mayfair, quickly,” she gasped at the driver. Without hesitating, she opened the door and flung herself inside.
“Unhand my cousin, you blackguard!” Reginald burst into the room, then drew up short at the sight of Keefe snoring on the bed, one hand affixed to the post. “Blast it!” He grabbed the man’s shoulder and gave him a rough shake. “Wake up, you incompetent fool. Where is she?”
“What?” The viscount opened his eyes dreamily and blinked up at Reginald. Saliva had leaked out one corner of the viscount’s mouth, wetting his handsome face.
Reginald curled his lip at the apparatus spread out on the small table, then ran to the open window and leaned out. Just in time to see the backside of his cousin disappearing into a cab with yellow wheels. The door had barely closed behind her before the driver whipped up the horse and the vehicle sped out of sight.
He hit his fist against the sill. Bloody hell. Why was he saddled with such an incompetent? His perfectly laid plans dashed for want of proper execution. The jig was up now, at least where his cousin and the viscount were concerned. Reginald was mortally certain she would entertain no further offers from Keefe.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. At least he was not implicated in this—and even if the viscount tried, no one would believe him, the sotted idiot. But damnation, now what? He turned back to the figure on the bed.
“Get up.” He prodded the man, finally getting him to sit.
The viscount swayed, then frowned at the strap around his wrist. Memory slowly filtered back into his expression. “The minx. Untie me, and
we can go after her.”
“There is no going after her. Untie your own damned self, and get out. Go—as far as possible. My father will not be happy once he hears of this little fiasco.”
“But…” The man stared up at him, his green eyes beginning to clear. “My money. The wedding.”
Reginald leaned close. His throat was tight with anger. “There. Is. Nothing. No money, no wedding. You have failed. Our partnership is over.” He whirled and stalked to the door. “I suggest France. If your funds can stand the strain.”
“Wait. Surely there’s some—wait!” The viscount had gained his feet and was straining forward, with little success, as one hand was still firmly attached to the bedpost.
Reginald slammed the door closed behind him.
Chapter 22
Alex rode down yet another street in Kensington, peering through wrought-iron gates and over hedges. He had been quartering the neighborhood for the better part of an hour and had seen neither a curricle bearing Viscount Keefe’s arms or the cab with yellow wheels that had so alarmed Pen. The compulsion that had sent him racing out had settled to a dull throb.
One more street, then he would turn back to Twickenham House, where no doubt Caroline was even now sharing a cup of tea and scolding Pen for her fears. The quiet clop of his horse’s hooves underscored the peace of the area. Once again he had dashed to the rescue, and once again he was neither needed nor wanted.
What was it that pulled him on, that thin, unbreakable string that tied him to her despite everything? He had thought it was the fact of having a child together, but that had been an excuse for doing the thing his own heart desired. It was her, Caroline, he had come back for. If she had been carrying his child, it only meant there was a hope she might need him, even here in grey London.
A child. It had felt like redemption—as if forgiveness might be possible, his debt somehow paid with love and not suffering.
A false and foolish hope.
Yet he feared Caroline would always be in his thoughts, no matter how distant he was from her. She was a star in the night sky, one his eyes would always seek out, one that burned more brightly than any other.
One more impossible wound on his heart that he must learn to live with.
The quiet of the neighborhood was suddenly marred by a clatter of hooves and wheels. A cab, barreling down the street toward him. Alex yanked his mount sharply back as the vehicle raced through the intersection—far too quickly for the normal pace of Kensington. His stomach clenched as he registered the wheels blurring past. Yellow spokes.
The urgency he had felt earlier flared back to life. He turned his mount and spurred after. If Simms was behind this, if Caroline was harmed in any way, there would be the devil to pay. He only hoped the man was in the cab—that he had found the right quarry. It was moving too quickly for him to catch up and yank the door open. He would have to settle for keeping it in sight until an opportunity presented itself. Surely the vehicle would reach its destination soon enough.
They entered the crowded thoroughfares bordering Hyde Park. He was just able to keep the vehicle in view, though the press of traffic kept him from getting closer. Then they broke through into the less traveled roads of Paddington, and the driver increased the pace again. They were heading north now, away from the heart of the city.
Alex followed. Until he gained some answers, he would follow.
Caroline lost her balance and tumbled forward as the cab jerked into motion. The door swung shut behind her, and a large hand circled her arm, dragging her onto the worn leather seat.
“Well, well. How fortunate,” a familiar voice said.
She glanced up, then froze in recognition, sudden panic fluttering in her chest. Mr. Simms. Good lord! She lunged for the door, but he was quicker, catching the handle and holding it closed. With a snick, he turned the lock.
She gripped the useless handle. “Let me go!”
“I think not. You’ve cost me plenty, and nearly got my throat slit over it. No, you’re a prize bird and I’ll not let you fly the cage this time.” The smile he gave her was unpleasant, revealing large, yellow teeth. “Very obliging of you to drop into my lap, Miss Huntington.”
He rapped on the roof, calling to the driver to make haste, and the vehicle sped forward. She felt like a trapped bird indeed, beating her wings desperately against implacable bars.
“Stop the cab at once! Kidnapping is a capital offense, sir.”
The cab rounded a corner, slowed. She darted a glance out the window. The street was full of pedestrians—surely someone would hear her if she screamed. She drew in a deep breath.
“Tsk, tsk. None of that now.” Mr. Simms’s hand clamped over her mouth.
There was a sharp explosion of pain at the base of her skull, a sudden white flash from within, and then everything was darkness.
It was dim in the cab when Caroline opened her eyes, her cheek pressed against the gritty floorboards. They were still moving, and at some speed if the rocking of the vehicle was any indication. Her head throbbed, a dismal echo of her misery those early days on Crete. But she was in England now—and at the mercy of Mr. Simms. She cautiously looked up. Yes, he was still sitting opposite, arms folded, watching her.
“No more tricks now, missy,” he said. “Just sit quiet until we get to where we’re going.”
“And where is that?” She pulled herself up onto the seat and looked out the window. Empty countryside. No help there. Her hands were cold and she folded them in her lap. In truth, she was cold to the bone. At some point during this dreadful day she had lost her wrap. She remembered now: Viscount Keefe had fallen on it. A mirthless laugh welled up. And she had thought that situation could not get any worse.
“Where? Just a quiet, out-of-the-way place where we can take care of business.”
The way he said the word business made her stomach flip. This man was a hundred times more dangerous to her than the viscount. She knew it by the prickles of fear running along her skin, the marrow-deep cold that would not be dislodged. Still, she had to ask.
“I don’t understand what ‘business’ we might have. If it’s money you need, I’m sure my uncle—”
He cut her off with a sharp laugh. “Aye, it’s your uncle’s money the boss is after in the end, but it will do you no good now. Nothing will, I’m afraid.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a long blade.
Caroline caught her breath. No. Please, no.
He nodded to her, tilting the knife so it caught the red glint of the setting sun. “Pretty, don’t you think? Thin, but wicked sharp. Just the thing for…” He paused, looking her up and down, then grinned and began to pare his fingernails. “Now sit still and quit your yapping.”
She closed her eyes and slumped back against the seat. He was playing with her, a cat with a bird. The thought came, sudden and clear: she was going to die. Tonight, when the cab stopped. Dear lord. She did not know if prayers would help, but she bowed her head and sent a silent plea winging heavenward.
There was so much left undone.
She wished her brother, James, had come to the ball, but he had sent word Lily was in difficult labor, and he would not leave her side. She would never see him again. And her uncle—could it be possible she would never again feel his gentle, fatherly touch on her shoulder? Then there were the children of Twickenham House, Maggie, Pen.
Alex.
Ah, Alex. Death had seemed just as certain when they had been trapped in the Cave of Zeus, but somehow, with him beside her, she had not felt so utterly lost. If only things could have been different. Regret for that, more than anything, seared through her.
She looked at Mr. Simms, still working with his blade. “Why?”
He glanced at her, then lifted one shoulder. “No reason not to tell. It goes down to the money. Your cousin, Lord Reginald, is, hmm, a wee bit indebted to some powerful people.”
“But my uncle—”
His look hardened. “All right then—a great deal indebted. To the
tune of mortgaging his entire inheritance in exchange for a bit of the ready. Expensive fellow, your cousin. Very bad judgment when it comes to investments and the like. After his loss of the Somergate estate last year, well”—he wiped the knife on the sleeve of his coat—“the boss thought it best to take matters into his own hands. Or my hands, as it were.”
“But why…” Caroline trailed off.
Reggie’s entire inheritance. But if she was adopted, she would be entitled to a handsome portion of the earl’s estate herself, leaving her cousin in serious debt. If she was adopted. They could stop it, though, if they…Comprehension shivered through her.
“You want to kill me to prevent the adoption.”
“You’re a smart one, Miss Huntington. Though I fooled you readily enough on Crete.” He chuckled. “An accident while traveling abroad is not uncommon. Would have been easier than all this rigmarole.”
She clenched her hands together. Reggie’s entire inheritance. “That is…a great deal of money.” Oh, how could he have been so stupid!
“It’s a shame you’re the one paying for it. I’d rather have that black-hearted scoundrel you call cousin sitting across from me, but he’s the goose with the golden egg.” He shrugged. “Nice of you to nip off with that viscount fellow, though. Makes our work that much easier. He’ll be blamed for it when they find you. A man of his vices and low morals, taking a girl like you out to his country house, then getting rough with her. Too bad he killed you after you refused him.”
Caroline felt sick. Her mind shied away from those last words. Viscount Keefe. Had everyone known he was a scoundrel but her? And how ironic, that he actually had spirited her away to compromise her. She knew Mr. Simms would be much harder to escape. But, dear heavens, she had to try. As soon as the cab stopped.
They traveled on into the darkness. Her captor made no move to light the lamps. Caroline wrapped her arms around herself and tried to think. Where was Viscount Keefe’s country manor? In Essex, or was it Suffolk? Not terribly far from London—not nearly far enough. Would there be reinforcements there? It didn’t seem likely. Mr. Simms had no way of knowing he would be able to snatch her today. Unless this plot had been a long time in the making. Which perhaps it had.
All He Desires Page 24
