Nicola and the Viscount

by Meg Cabot

  Nicola, though she did not feel particularly brave, nevertheless snorted. Madame had always frowned upon this method of communicating one's feelings, but Nicola supposed Madame would agree that most rules of etiquette could be waived in the case of kidnapping.

  "Oh, yes," she said sarcastically. "Your economy is truly to be applauded, my lord."

  It was at this point that Lord Sebastian, after a languorous stretch, rose and said in his lazy drawl, "Look, can't we get this over with? I've a man to see about a horse."

  "Another one?" The Grouser lowered his handkerchief and eyed the viscount disapprovingly. "Didn't you just buy a horse a month ago?"

  The viscount shot Lord Renshaw a disgusted look. "Can a man have too many horses?"

  "As a matter of fact," the Grouser said, "yes, I think—"

  "Enough." Lord Farelly reached down and pulled out a spindle-back chair. "I believe we've all forgotten our manners. There is, after all, a lady present. Miss Sparks? Won't you sit down, my dear?"

  Nicola, primly folding her hands in front of her, said, "Thank you, no. I'd prefer to stand."

  "Sit!" thundered the earl in a voice so loud that more dust was loosened from the heavy oak beams overhead, and came sprinkling down upon them like snow.

  Nicola hastened to do as Lord Farelly commanded, slipping onto the chair with an unsteadily hammering heart, and a sudden inkling that she might not live out the afternoon.

  "That's better," the earl said in his normal voice. He even smiled down at her . . . much the way he had smiled that day he'd taken her to ride the Catch Me Who Can. "Now. Would you care for anything to drink? There's no tea, I'm sorry to say, but I could get you a glass of ale. . . ."

  "No, thank you," Nicola said meekly. "I'm quite all right."

  "Fine. Fine, then."

  And then the earl pulled out another chair, spun it around, and settled upon it, only backward, so that his elbows rested across the chair back as he gazed down at Nicola with a kindly expression on his face.

  Only this time, Nicola knew better than to trust it.

  "We are, as you might have guessed, Miss Sparks, in a bit of difficulty," Lord Farelly explained. "You see, I am a partner in a firm called Stockton and Darlington. Do you know it?"

  Nicola thought it wiser not to admit that she'd read all about the company, courtesy of his lordship's private correspondence, which she'd come across while rifling through his desk drawers.

  "No, my lord," she said, widening her eyes to appear all the more innocent.

  It seemed to work. Lord Farelly said, "No, of course you've never heard of it. Well, the Stockton and Darlington Company is in the coal business. It is our goal to see that everyone in England—and, eventually, the world—has access to our product. A noble enough goal, would you not agree, my dear?"

  Nicola, after a brief glance at her guardian to see if there was to be any mercy from that quarter, nodded. The Grouser, she saw, was busy digging out the contents of his nostrils. There was to be no help from him, she saw at once.

  "The problem," his lordship went on, "is that we need a better delivery system for our coal. We've used horses for years, but the problem with horses, Miss Sparks, is that they can haul only so much without getting tired . . . no matter how hard you whip them. That's why lately we've been working on a revolutionary new way of distributing our product. I believe you are familiar with this particular innovation. In fact, you've ridden on one."

  Nicola nodded, conscious that both the Grouser and Lord Sebastian, as well as his father, were staring at her. The Milksop was slumped against the bar, his head resting against his arms. He alone did not appear interested in what was happening across the room. Thank you, Harold, Nicola thought silently to herself. Thank you very much, you sissified excuse for a man. . . .

  "The Catch Me Who Can," Nicola said carefully, because Lord Farelly seemed to expect a reply of some sort.

  "Correct," the earl said, as happily as if he were a teacher with a particularly gifted pupil. "The Catch Me Who Can. I took you. Miss Sparks, to ride on the Catch Me Who Can because I thought it might spark in you, as it had in me, an enthusiasm—a fever, you might almost say—for locomotives. For I believe that locomotives, Miss Sparks, are the way of the future. But you've heard me say so before."

  "Yes," Nicola said, since again, some response from her seemed anticipated.

  "What I'd hoped to do," Lord Farelly went on, "was to plant in your mind, Miss Sparks, a seed. A seed I like to call progress. Because progress, Miss Sparks, is what industry is all about. Without it, we fester, do we not? Indeed, we do. And progress, Miss Sparks, in the coal industry, is all about locomotion. With the use of locomotives, we can haul more coal to our customers than we ever could using the old-fashioned means of a horse and wagon. Do you see where I am going with this, Miss Sparks?"

  Nicola nodded. She wondered if the driver was still waiting outside the door. What if she were to make a run for it? Would Lord Farelly—or his son—try to stop her? The Grouser she was certain she could outrun. But what was the point of trying if that foul-smelling hansom cab driver was going to be there to bar the door? Perhaps there was some other way out of the building.

  "It so happens that your ancestral home, Beckwell Abbey," Lord Farelly continued, "is smack-dab in the middle of the most direct route we were planning on using for the delivery of our coal. It was my hope that, once you became as impressed as I am, Miss Sparks, by the incredible potential afforded by these magnificent steel engines, you would recognize that some sacrifices must necessarily be made in the name of progress. Stockton and Darlington offered you what I believe was a more than generous amount for your home. It isn't, if I understand correctly, that any members of your family still live in the abbey. Still, I can see that a girl who's lost both her parents might perhaps form an attachment to even the humblest of homes, and want to cling to it as the last vestige of her family.

  "But that, you see, was why I offered you a place in my family, Miss Sparks. To replace all you'd be losing." Lord Farelly gestured to his son, who stood with his back against the bar, his elbows propped upon it behind him, gazing at her with those eyes she'd used to think the color of a summer sky, but which she now equated with the hardest of ice. "My son was very willing to marry you, and make you, in essence, my daughter. You would have had, at last, parents and a sister who love you. Moreover, you'd have had a handsome and well-off husband. You'd have been a viscountess, with all the jewels and gowns such a title suggests. All that money could buy you, Miss Sparks, I'd have gladly afforded you. And all in exchange for a house that you do not use, and which is not worth half of what we'd have gladly paid you for it."

  Here Lord Farelly's tone, which had been quite pleasant, suddenly became very unpleasant indeed.

  "But what did you do?" the earl asked her, his gaze narrowing. "How did you respond to our generosity? You broke off your engagement to my son with barely an explanation, and left our home with hardly a word of thanks!" He stabbed an index finger at her. "You very selfishly refused to see any of us. And, worst of all, you still stubbornly clung to the idea that you were not going to sell the abbey."

  He lowered his hand and said, in a voice that was lower in volume, but no less menacing, "And that, Miss Sparks, was a very grave mistake. Because the fact is, none of us can afford to stand in the way of progress. To do so is a betrayal. Not a betrayal of friendship, or of trust. But a betrayal of our country. Of England. Because if any of us decide to stand in the way of progress, what we are really doing is holding England back, keeping her from becoming all that she could be. And you, as a loyal citizen, would never want to do that, would you, Miss Sparks?"

  Nicola, after some consideration, shook her head. Not to do so, she felt, would be unwise at this juncture. And she was gratified to see that shed guessed rightly. Lord Farelly seemed very glad to see her head shake. He even smiled, reminding Nicola of all the many jolly conversations she'd had with him back when she'd stayed at the Bartholomews'.
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  Except crocodiles, Nicola reminded herself, were said to smile, as well . . . right before striking their prey.

  "That's more like it," Lord Farelly said, still smiling broadly. "You see, Norbert? I told you she could be reasonable. You simply hadn't put the matter in as clear a light as I have. Now, Miss Sparks, perhaps we can repair this little misunderstanding, and all go about our separate ways and forget any of this unpleasantness ever happened." His lordship reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a sheaf of papers. "I just need you to sign a few things, and—"

  Nicola was willing to be obliging . . . but only to a point.

  "No," she said in the smallest voice imaginable.

  Lord Farelly, the papers still in his hand, glanced up briefly. "I beg your pardon?" he said, as if he had not heard her correctly.

  "I said—" Nicola's throat had gone dry. She wished she hadn't turned down the earl's offer of a glass of ale. Nevertheless, she swallowed and said in the same small voice, "No. I won't sell. And," she added, knowing it was only going to get her in trouble, but unable to help herself, "you can't make me."

  Lord Farelly stared at her, for all the world as if she were a rock or some other inanimate object that had suddenly begun to speak. The Grouser, across the room, groaned and lifted his gaze, in evident supplication, to the ceiling. Even Lord Sebastian sucked in his breath and shook his head, while, farther down the bar, the Milksop let out a whimper, and hid his head deeper in his arms.

  Lord Farelly blinked. "What . . . did . . . you . . . say?" he asked slowly.

  Nicola, though she was frightened witless, felt angrier than she did scared. Angry enough to snap, "You heard me. I said no. I'll never sell Beckwell Abbey. But I'll tell you, if I were to sell it, the last person on earth I'd let buy it is you, Lord Farelly. Imagine, suggesting my not selling it is unpatriotic! I'll tell you what's unpatriotic: Bullying a young, defenseless orphan. That's what's unpatriotic. Why, men like you ought to be locked up!"

  Lord Farelly's reaction to these words was swift and terrible. He was on his feet in a second, knocking the chair from his way as he took a single step toward Nicola, his right arm raised. . . .

  The Grouser moaned and hid his eyes. The Milksop had never even lifted his head, so he did not know what was happening. But Lord Sebastian, still leaning against the bar, grinned and said, "You've done it now, Nick."

  Nicola did not flinch. She looked up into Lord Farelly's face, mottled red with rage, and said, "Go ahead and hit me. It's exactly the kind of behavior I'd expect from a coward like you."

  Truth be told, Nicola did not feel half so brave as she was pretending. Her heart was in her throat, and she was quite certain that, should she ever again be allowed to stand, her knees would not support her.

  Nevertheless, she kept her chin thrust forward and her brows lowered over her eyes. This was, she felt, the appropriate response to a bully. For that was all the Earl of Farelly was: a great, mean bully.

  Something in Nicola's attitude must have reached the tiny part of Lord Farelly's brain that was still capable of civilized behavior. Because, slowly—too slowly, for Nicola's peace of mind—he lowered his arm . . . though he never took his glittering gaze from her face.

  "Locked up, eh?" he echoed, breaking the thick silence that had fallen across the room.

  Nicola held her chin higher still. So, she imagined, had Lady Jane Grey, going to meet the chopping block, held her own chin . . . right before she helpfully removed her lace collar, so her executioner would not miss his mark. Nicola, however, had no intention of being anywhere near as accommodating.

  "That," Nicola said rudely, "is precisely what I hope they do to you."

  Barely was the last word out of her mouth before Lord Farelly, with another thunderous cry, swooped down and hauled her bodily from her chair.

  "Then let's see how you like it," he bellowed, propelling Nicola by one arm toward the staircase at the far end of the room. "Go on! Upstairs with you. If you think locking someone up is so effective, let's see if it works. Perhaps a little time for some quiet reflection will cause you to see the error of your ways, Miss Sparks!"

  And, with a great shove, Lord Farelly forced Nicola up the stairs and into a tiny room on the building's second floor, into which he thrust her, and then, with a slam, closed the door behind her. The last sound Nicola heard for some time was the scrape of the key turning in the lock.

  And then she was alone.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  "'Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West, through all the wide Border his steed was the best.'"

  Nicola, lying on her narrow and extremely uncomfortable pallet, stared up at the sloping beams above her head. It was difficult to see them in the waning light. There was only, after all, one small window to begin with, and that had been somewhat crudely boarded up.

  Still, she attempted to make out the shapes of the beams against the dark wood ceiling.

  "'So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, there never was a knight like the young Lochinvar.'"

  Nicola's voice, in the stillness of the room, sounded curiously muffled. Perhaps that was because she had, for some time before that, been crying. She was hoarse from it, and from screaming, the sides of her fists raw from where she had beaten them against the locked door, her boot toes scuffed from her kicking them against the unyielding panel of wood. She was, she was beginning to realize, well and truly trapped.

  Still, though they could lock up her body, they would never get, she'd decided, her mind. And so she strove to keep it flexible by demanding from it all the poetry that she knew.

  " For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.'"

  That was precisely who Nicola was. Fair Ellen, locked in this odious tower against her will.

  But where, Nicola wondered, was her Lochinvar?

  Nowhere. For Nicola had no Lochinvar. In the first place, she was not even sure anyone yet realized she was missing. And in the second, so what if she were? It wasn't as if anyone would have any clue where to begin looking. No, Nicola had seen to that with her own stupidity. Imagine, believing that silly note! Why, she ought to have known a gentleman like Sir Hugh would never purchase a shawl for his lady love. Not when he knew how much the purchase might upset his future mother-in-law.

  No. Nicola was a fool, and of the first order. And look where it had gotten her: locked in a cell, with no chance of rescue from Lochinvar—or anyone, for that matter.

  She would rot here, she was quite certain. Rot until she was nothing more than a steaming pile of bones.

  And then, without warning, the key scraped once more in the lock. Nicola lifted her head from her pallet, but as the door opened, her eyes were dazzled by a sudden burst of light. She threw up a hand to shield them, but it was only, she soon discovered, the light from a candle flame. It had grown so dark in her cell that her eyes had gotten quite used to it.

  "Well, Nicola," said the voice not of her rescuer, but of one of her tormentors. Her guardian, to be exact. "Quite a little dilemma you find yourself in the middle of, eh?"

  Nicola, who was not in the mood to speak to the Grouser, rolled over on her pallet and stared steadily at the closest wall instead.

  "Oh, not speaking to me, are we?" The Grouser did not sound bothered by this in the least. "Well, that's understandable, I suppose. Still, surely by now you've had time to realize that his lordship and I . . . well, we mean business, Nicola. It truly is of no inconvenience to us to keep you locked in here forever. You really might consider being a good girl, and giving us what we want. It will spare you a good deal of suffering in the end."

  "I won't," Nicola said through gritted teeth, and in the direction of the wall, "sell."

  "Ah." The Grouser sounded a bit sad. "I was afraid you were going to say that. I told Farelly you'd not been in here long enough. He is not used to, as I am, your bullheadedness. He seemed to think a few hours was all it would take. But no. He is accustomed, you see
, to his own daughter, who is of course a model of femininity. Quite unlike you, Nicola, whom I am beginning to think quite unnatural I told him it would take far more than mere imprisonment to get through to a stubborn miss like you. I am very much afraid we will have to resort to Lord Farelly's other plan."

  Nicola, hearing this, rolled over and sat up so swiftly, she came close to striking her head on one of the very roof beams she'd been staring at just moments before, so low did the ceiling slope above the bed.

  "I knew it," she cried with flashing eyes. "I knew you intended to kill me, you murderous swine. Well, go ahead, and be swift about it, so that my soul might commence to plaguing you and drive you directly to your own grave, through madness."

  The Grouser looked a good deal taken aback by this. He stood with the candle in one hand, and his handkerchief with the other, the door wide open behind him. Still, Nicola feared that, even if she were to rush him and successfully get past, she would only encounter the hansom cab driver belowstairs, who would turn her around and force her right back up them again.

  "Kill you?" Lord Renshaw shook his head distastefully. "Good Lord. You always were a most fanciful child. No one intends to kill you, Nicola. Except, of course, in the case of self-defense, as I swear, I sometimes fear for my own life where you are concerned, you are so brash at times. No, that is not the plan I refer to . . . though I cannot but admit that all of our lives would be a good deal simpler were you no longer in them."

  "What is it, then?" Nicola barked. "Torture? Do you plan on sticking hot needles beneath my fingernails until I agree to sell?"

  When the Grouser only blinked some more and looked confused, she went on passionately, "Or starvation? You plan on slowly robbing me of my will by denying me food and water? Well, sorry to disappoint you, but it won't work. I will never give up the abbey. Never!"