by Tess Quinn
She did not cry out, his late warning firmly in her memory, but the venom in her voice and inflexion was intended as a show of calm disdain. “Sir. If you had anything of the gentleman in you, you would know that a lady never introduces herself and certainly not without first being acquainted with her opposite’s identity.”
The man laughed, a hearty bark. “Truly spoken, my lady. Under the circumstances, however, I would say my identity is a fact better left hidden, do not you think? But I like to hear you call me ‘Sir’, you have such a way with it. And since I have you in thrall, it seems entirely suitable. So for the term of our acquaintance, that shall be my name. You may call me Sir… in fact, I insist upon it.”
“Why you vile man! I will do no such thing,” she cried. “I am in thrall to no one!”
“Ah! Temper, temper, dear lady. For that is a quick way to find yourself mute once more.” He gave that same bark of laughter again. “You will call me Sir, or I shall not reply to you.” His tone then turned hard and serious. “Now I ask you again, what is your name, and where do you live?”
Caroline stewed for a few moments, and then decided she must join the game this man dictated in her own future interest. “I… Sir… am Miss Caroline Bingley, if you please; and I do not for one moment appreciate the effronteries to my person I have been shown this evening. Now I have told you my name – it is only proper for you to return the courtesy.”
“I think Sir still suits for now. I will tell you something, though, Miss Caroline Bingley. Were I your father, I would horsewhip the bounder who sent you home solitary of an evening. Or are you au fait with such travel in the conduct of your affairs – does your custom often leave you to your own devices once you have satisfied them?” The man sniggered, a low ugly laugh.
“How dare you! I am no common strumpet!”
“Yes, I can see – you are not common in the least.” Again, he sniggered.
“You know perfectly my meaning, Sir! You have perhaps the advantage of me for now, but I will not stand for being so maligned!”
“Most humble apologies, my lady. I am suitably chastised, and will make sport of your condition no longer.” His laugh this time was more good natured than previously and Caroline was somewhat mollified if not satisfied in full.
Playing for time, Caroline thought to try to make this man betray aught of his identity by drawing him into conversation. He was obviously playing at something himself, for his language and addresses were certainly not those of a tradesman. “My father has been dead for some time. And no one tells me what to do. I choose where – and when – I go out and am perfectly capable of seeing to myself.”
That laugh again. Sir evidently found Caroline’s petulance most charming. “Yes, you have done so well for yourself tonight!” There was silence for a moment, yet even through her head covering, Caroline could feel his eyes upon her. She was set to initiate another comment when footsteps sounded at the door, and the man who Sir had called ‘Joss’ said, “We’re all set, Cap’n. Our pigeon has been clipped. We can clean up here and finish it all off, if you want to be on your way. What do you want us to do with the trull?”
“Joss, please. I am reliably informed that our guest is a lady, chaste and pure no doubt. Pray treat her with more respect.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” Caroline sat unmoved, seething under her head cover. Joss repeated: “What do you want us to do with the lady, Cap’n?”
What followed gave Caroline a frisson of fear, more than anything that had yet occurred. Sir’s chuckle was low and came from deep in the throat. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself on her, Joss. I will escort the lady home myself tonight in her carriage.” Caroline could not know of the wink and grin her abductor proffered to Joss. “Can you see that my horse is returned, and ask one of the others to drive us?”
“Of course, Cap’n.” Caroline heard Sir slide closer to his minion, as he murmured directions to the youth that she could not make out. Following this, Joss’s footsteps receded, and Caroline was yet again alone with her captor. A moment later, she could hear ‘Figgins’ being lifted from his driving bench and another took his place – the carriage began to move. “Do not concern yourself with your driver; he will awaken in a few hours in his quarters with a sore head and a flagon of wine for his troubles.”
Caroline paid scant attention to this. “How does your man know where to take us?” she asked; “for I have not told you where I reside.” He did not answer. Finally, after a lapse of silence, Caroline added, “Sir.”
“He does not take us to your home, lady, but to mine. You amuse me, and after such a night of intrigue, I feel the need of some amusement.”
“How dare you? Release me at once!” Caroline trembled in spite of her resolve to show no discomfort.
“Oh, I will release you, Miss Caroline; have no fear on that score. But first I wish to entertain you by way of apology for your blundering into our business tonight.”
A tense silence ensued. Though she could not see him but as a shadow of movement through her face covering, Caroline could feel Sir’s eyes inspecting her, certain they roamed up and down her person missing nothing. It wrought a physical sensation in her that she attributed to fear, though the sensation itself was not unpleasant. She steeled herself to overcome the spasms in her stomach and regain the anger which would best serve her in her straits. Finally, after a chuckle that seemed to pronounce upon her machinations, Sir spoke.
“I wonder at what you have there in your reticule, hmm? Anything of interest to a common highwayman?” She noted a tug as he released her bag from her wrist, and felt a momentary stab of pain at thought of him riffling through it. Though he could not meet her eyes, still she closed them in embarrassment as he found her secret treasure.
“Ah! Most curious!” he said. She knew to what he referred and could picture him all too well fingering the small locket of gold, shaped as a globe and with floral engravings covering the whole of it. “That you carry this is telling, and yet you do not wear it. Surely you would do so from a suitable lover… or is he married?”
“You mistake me to think so, it is unconscionable. The locket was a gift from my brother made some time ago.”
“A brother?” His tone suggested disbelief.
“Yes, my brother.”
Sir opened the locket, finding inside a small coil of dark hair tied delicately in blue ribbon. “And this, then, must be your brother’s hair that you carry so reverently?”
Caroline remained silent. She would not rise to this man’s jibes. He knew perfectly well she would not carry her brother’s lock. Now with his prize, however, her captor needed no further speech.
Sir’s silence gave over a moment for Caroline to reflect on her accession of that lock of hair. In fact, she had obtained it by some stealth from Mr Darcy over a year before at Netherfield, before he had given his attentions to Elizabeth Bennet. Caroline had stolen into his chambers late one afternoon when the men were dining with Colonel Forster, thinking she was secure. Her aim had been to find the book he had been reading, in hopes of providing her with topics of discourse in which to try to engage his interest. She had wandered around the room for a few moments, curious of Darcy’s personal possessions, running her fingers lightly over them but resisting the strong urge to pick up and fondle any in the guilt-driven anxiety that he would somehow later know of her uninvited presence in the room.
She had looked towards his canopied bed, the curtains opened and counterpane lying smooth across it except for one spot that carried a slight indentation as though he had sat there momentarily after the bed had been made up. She had made her way into his adjoining closet, enjoying from the attire it held evidence of Darcy’s unmistakable presence – a manly scent overlain with that of seasoned leather. She closed her eyes a moment to take it in and, on reopening them had noticed his grooming kit upon a dressing table. Before she knew what she did, she had picked up the brush for his hair and gazed at the soft, dark strays it held.
As she had
stood there, turning the brush in her fingers, she had become aware suddenly of noise from the other side of the closet door that led to the servant’s hallway. In a panic she had realized someone else was about to enter. The idea of this mortified her; without thinking, she had run back into the bedchamber and pressed herself between the desk and the connecting closet door even as she heard the other door opening.
Her first fearful thought of Mr Darcy himself finding her thus had been quickly dismissed – the man would not customarily enter his chambers through the closet. But she had forgotten that, though the gentlemen were away for the evening, the servants still had their business to attend. Caroline had listened as Darcy’s valet Grayson moved about the closet, apparently storing clean garments in their place, and she had prayed that he would not venture into the bed chamber even as she looked down and noticed in horror that she still held Mr Darcy’s brush yet.
Caroline had closed her eyes and stayed still in her hiding place, hoping that Grayson would not notice the missing item. It had seemed an age before the man had finished his business; but finally Caroline had heard him move again to the hallway door and exit. Though she had breathed a sigh of relief, she had waited a moment more for safety before venturing out from hiding. She had quickly gone into the closet to replace the brush, then made her way back through the bed chamber to exit into the hallway, being careful to check that no one occupied it to mark her trespass. Mr Darcy’s reading material was altogether forgotten.
She had felt silly and guilt-ridden upon reaching her own rooms; but not enough to discard the hairs she found clutched in her hand, apparently removed with absent-minded nervousness from the brush during her secretion in Darcy’s room. She carefully gathered them into a coil, then found in her own closet a delicate blue ribbon to tie them together. Once the residual fear of her near discovery abated, Caroline had been quite pleased with her prize. She had found among her jewellery a locket Charles had given her long ago to commemorate her anniversary, her sixteenth year. She had never worn the trinket, finding it unfashionable; but it would serve its purpose admirably for the lock of hair. Once nestled inside, Caroline had begun to carry with her the lock, in the locket, either in her pockets or her reticule, as a symbol of her goal.
But of any of this, Sir could not know, nor from whose head the lock originated; Caroline felt some relief in this realization. After his last question, she had heard him shift as he sat back. She could imagine him fondling her treasure with a mocking sneer. Sir was not drawn to further speech and, after some time, the carriage ceased moving and the driver lightly tapped the roof.
At the signal, Sir leaned into her again, untied her ankles and embarked himself from the carriage, then reached up to assist Caroline’s step down. His grasp upon her arms was not ungentle, yet she bristled at it in her blinded state. She drew herself rigid momentarily, earning a chortle from Sir before she relented and allowed him to guide her from the carriage to the pavement.
Chapter Twelve:
Incarceration
I
mmediately upon Caroline gaining the street from her carriage, Sir released his guiding hold upon her. She determined this her only chance of salvation; as soon as her feet recognized solid ground and she felt his grasp give way, she took several rapid steps, not knowing in which direction she sought her freedom. She stopped quickly to reach up and attempt, with hands still bound together, to remove the cloth around her head that blinded her.
That laugh – oh, how she hated that laugh – brought her to a halt, as she realized that in her present condition she had no hope of escape. No doubt she was in some alien and unsavoury neighbourhood and, even should she elude Sir, she would only run afoul of other, possibly worse, sorts who would take advantage of her condition. Slumping in dejection, she heard, sounding sharply on the pavement, her abductor take a few strides and catch her up. He lifted her as easily as a feather, and slung her over his shoulder amid the sniggers of their driver.
When she realized after mounting a set of steps that they entered a building, Caroline tried to listen for any sounds of a singular nature that might alert her to information of use, or that might assist her in escaping at some point. She was carried up yet more stairs and into a room where a fire was lit; she could feel the heat of it on her backside as Sir dumped her with little ceremony into a chair.
“Your fashion and wrap are light for February, my lady, you must be chilled. Sit here by the fire and warm yourself. Would you like a drink? Sherry or Brandy? I can have coffee prepared if you prefer.”
“I can hardly sip at anything with this rag over my head, now, can I?” she replied. Expecting no success, Caroline nonetheless decided to attempt a direct approach. “Will you remove it… Sir?”
Her surprise was great when immediately he said, “Yes, of course… but indulge me a moment further.” She heard him move away, and an instant later a door closed. Without her sight, she could not be certain he had left the room; perhaps he merely stood in a far corner, observing and testing her behaviour. For all she knew, they had not been alone in the room upon entering as well, and someone even now had his detestable eyes roaming over her. She sat debating making an attempt to free herself, certain of failure one instant and the next, considering he had been gone some while and the room did, in fact, feel empty and quiet. Perhaps he had left her, expecting her to now release herself in order to maintain his anonymity. She would feel a fool were that the case and she made no attempt to move or even to try to remove her head covering by herself. Her chance dissipated, however, as she heard the door open yet again. Sir returned to her side a minute later, identifiable by the clearing of his throat as much as by the height from which the sound emanated.
“You impress me, madam, with your restraint. I half expected to return to find you trying the window latches.”
“I would not give you satisfaction, Sir, of more reason to make sport of me; for I have no doubt you would not leave me without anticipating and… protecting… your property.”
“Ha!” The man sounded genuinely amused. “You credit me overmuch, my dear. I must have been diverted by your enchantingly bestowed company for, in truth, I failed to consider anything of the sort until just before my return; by which time had you realized an escape I might have been sorely embarrassed. I shall have to exercise more care in future to protect my… property.”
“And how far would I have succeeded, before being found out? You know as well as I that, this being your neighbourhood and I most certainly a stranger to it, you would have found me again quite easily. I have no wish to be overhauled yet again.” Caroline heard the sound of liquid being poured beneath Sir’s answering laugh, then a decanter being replaced on a tray.
“Point ceded. Well, I think I can safely restore your sight now.” So saying, he removed first the ties holding the head cloth in place, then her wrist-ties. Her hands immediately went to pull the cloth from her face, and then smoothed her hair into place. She heard him chuckle again low in his throat.
“Always the fashionable one, are you not? Even in abduction, your hair must be perfect!”
She raised her eyes to glare at him, insults of the grossest order flooding into her mouth to hurl at him, but the sight she was met with arrested them all. And with the sight, she realized as well that his speech had changed totally since his return to the room, gone was the London-bred inflection.
Before her stood a man probably accustomed to being called Sir from several quarters. He was attired in evening clothes of a deep grey, of noticeably excellent quality. His were the groomed hands of a gentleman with only slight calluses to suggest any experience of physical labour. Yet such large hands they were as they held a glass of sherry out to her. In truth, all of him was large. Not in a rotund way, but rather in an imposing manner. Surely he must even best Mr Darcy in size alone. It would not be altogether unpleasing, his stature, were she not at his mercy. Of his countenance, however, she could tell little; for he had covered it with a mask so that
only his eyes and lower face could be seen.
But what eyes they were. Not dark as she had expected, though she supposed the shade would be considered as brown in tone. Then again, not brown, but … more like bronze in colour, and when he turned towards the firelight, they resembled burnished gold. They held an intensity that was unnerving. She was riveted by them for a long moment, trying to imprint their very shape and size to memory even as she knew she would recognize them anywhere for their rare hue. Complimented with a thatch of flaxen hair which itself glinted gold in the firelight, his eyes were striking. They, like his voice, would not be likely forgotten.
And she had every intention of ensuring that this man paid for his felonies against her, no matter the counterfeit courtesies they might trade. She studied his chin as well, finely sculpted and angularly drawn to a blunted point in an otherwise square-shaped head. She might imagine him to be quite a handsome man in differing circumstances. Immediately upon that thought, she checked herself; and discomfited, looked away to study her jail.
She inhabited what to all appearances was a gentleman’s study; dark wainscoting below burgundy walls almost covered in art. One long wall held a library of what seemed ancient books. She was seated in a club chair to one side the fireplace; a twin stood to the other side. There was a large oak desk in front of mullioned windows which formed much of the wall opposite the library. Occupied by choice in other circumstances, a very rich and welcome room indeed.
“Will you not tell me who you are, Sir? For you have no fear, obviously, of my seeing your abode and your person. You are by all the senses a man of means. I could little harm you in knowing who you are, I think.”
“No, I think not. For you could not identify me with certainty whilst I wear this mask, and your only way to identify my rooms would be if you were to enter them again. Were I to share my identity with you now, I would have to insist on your remaining as my guest” – the man chuckled low with sinister effect – “… unless… you would not be averse to that?”
