by Fran Baker
Though she feared the dirty wad would again be jammed into her mouth, the Viscount’s minions merely whipped a length of rope about her wrists and ankles, then another around her waist to secure her to the chair. The man she mentally called Weasel pawed her as often as possible during this procedure, his lecherous pale eyes scudding over her in brief bursts.
Throughout all this, Antiqua strove to remain calm, quelling her desire to panic. She must remain practical, she told herself, or they would not get out of this, a thought which instantly and vividly recalled Balstone’s feral fingers on her neck. Pushing the chilling image away, she sat quietly, blankly. Once the pair had tightened the knots about Archie’s ankles and wrists, they snuffed the few candles and left their captives in darkness.
“Archie? Did he hurt you very badly?” she asked on a hoarse whisper.
“No, not so very badly. How about you? When he hit you that way, I wished nothing more than to murder him on the spot!” Archie said with great feeling “And I must say, Antiqua, you were a great gun, a true ripper!”
“You’d have done as much—more!—had you not been bound,” she returned stoutly. “What we must need do now is formulate our escape.”
“Escape! But how? Even if we weren’t trussed up like a pair of fowls ready for roasting, we should be hard put to overpower that twosome Balstone has in his employ. Born on Newgate steps, in all likelihood, the pair of ’em.”
“We can’t just sit and wait for them to put an end to us at their leisure!” she scolded. “If we just think hard enough, we are bound to come up with something.”
Despite the assurance Antiqua tried to infuse in her voice, the silence that fell between them bore a distinctly dejected air. She was on the verge of blinking tears from her eyes when Archie next spoke.
“Antiqua?”
“Yes, Archie,” she answered eagerly. “Have you thought of something?”
“You know, even if we do manage to escape, it will be hours before we get back home. Morning or even later.”
“If? Are you saying you haven’t thought of an escape plan?”
“Not yet, no,” he admitted. “But, Antiqua, I want you to know that if—if we come out of this all right, I’ll do the right thing by you.”
“Right thing? What do you mean, Archie? I’ve no inclination to play at riddles!”
“I mean that I’ll see your reputation remains undamaged,” he explained in the measured tones of one speaking to a simpleton. “I shall marry you, of course. Daresay it’ll be tolerable enough once we’ve had some time to get used to the notion.”
“How can you be so, so . . .” She struggled for words. “So idiotic?” she found at last. “Talking about my reputation at a time like this! I mightn’t live to have a reputation—”
“Yes, but, dash it all, Antiqua, it’s got to be thought of! You can’t think me the sort of cad to leave you in the lurch. Of course I’ll wed you.”
She stared at him. “Tell me,” she finally said in explicit accents, “is this some hereditary tendency that you Vincents must propose the instant you’re left alone with a female? First your brother feels compelled and now you—”
“Are you saying—can you mean—you can’t mean—Jack has offered for you?” Archie interrupted in strangled disbelief.
“Well, not offered, precisely,” she conceded. “Commanded would be a more fitting description. Not that he wanted to marry me, you understand. He made it quite clearly known just how little he wanted to. But he thought he must,” she ended forlornly.
After a pregnant pause, during which she tried not to feel stricken by the thought of how little Vincent wanted to marry her, Rosewarren said firmly, “It makes no odds, Antiqua. After tonight, I’ll have to marry you. It’s the only honorable thing, so we’d both best face up to it.”
“There won’t be any necessity for us to face up to anything at all if we don’t come up with an escape plan,” she returned dampingly.
Another silence ensued, broken at length by a loud groan.
“Antiqua! What is it? Have you taken a hurt?”
The only response to Archie’s solicitous inquiries was another louder, longer wail. “Ohhh, sir!” Antiqua cried in a quivering voice. “Sir, please help me, ooohhh!” She set her chair to rocking, stamping her feet upon the wooden floor as she did so.
“Oh, God, Antiqua, are you going to be sick?” Archie asked anxiously as the door opened to throw a thin beam of light against the darkness.
“What’s goin’ on in here?” growled their giant warder.
“Ohhh,” Antiqua sighed in a weak voice. “I’m not—ohhh, I’m not feeling well. Please, sir, fetch me a bowl. I’m—I’m going to be sick!”
The man held his candle high. The slender ray of light cast an eerie pattern over her face. Still he hesitated, obviously uncertain what to do.”
“Oh, oh, oh,” Antiqua moaned.
“For God’s sake, man, do something to help her!” Archie commanded urgently.
“P-please, sir,” she begged in a thin vibrato.
“Here, now, hold steady. Don’t cast up your accounts just yet,” the man said gruffly. He set down the candle and disappeared on a lope.
Antiqua whined and mewed. Archie added his counsel to that of the warden by telling her to hold steady, there’s a good girl. The large man did not run back into the room; even in his haste, his gait was too lumbering to qualify as a run. But it was evident he had hurried for he panted from lack of breath.
“Here’s a bowl, now, Missy,” he said as he shoved a round pewter tureen beneath Antiqua’s chin. “Just give it of your best.”
She bent her head and worked her mouth, then raised her head and rolled her eyes. “Oh, thank you, sir, but I could—ooohh, I could not. If I could—could just hold it myself.” Her head swayed. She seemed ready to swoon.
The bowl was dropped into her lap and the man’s large fingers clumsily undid the knots binding her wrists.
“T-thank you, sir,” she murmured feebly as the ropes fell from her hands. Collecting the bowl, she lifted it to the level of her chin. “If—if you would not mind?”
With unexpected delicacy, he nodded and turned his back. She tightened her grip on the tureen, thrust up her arms and crashed it down upon the base of his skull. He crumpled where he stood, sinking noiselessly to the floor. Antiqua spared him not a glance, but set aside the now-dented bowl and bent over her ankles.
“What the devil!” Archie exclaimed, peering into the faint light with widened eyes.
“Shh!” hissed the object of his concern as she busily untied the ropes at her feet. She could not reach the knots at her back, so she scraped the chair across to where Archie sat on the floor, his back propped against the wall. “Give me your hands,” she directed. With some effort, for his ropes had been bound more tightly, she freed his hands, then he quickly returned the favor by releasing the binding about her waist.
“I say,” he whispered in admiration as he undid his feet, “that was brilliant thinking, Antiqua!”
“Here, help me tie him up,” was her only response to this compliment. “It’s a pity I had to dent such a pretty bowl, but it couldn’t be helped, of course. Now, Archie, I’ll call out to the other man, then you knock him down as he enters.”
They rolled their tied-up prisoner behind the cover of the linen spread over a corner settee. Archie picked up the dented pewter tureen and slid behind the open door. Antiqua placed herself on her chair and began to sniffle noisily, calling out, “Sir, sir!” as she did so. After a few minutes, they heard a flowing stream of oaths grow louder.
Weasel swayed slightly in the doorframe, a bottle dangling from one hand. What you be wantin’, dearie?” he asked on a slur. “I thought ol’ Elton was come to take care o’you. Wasn’t he man enough to do the job?”
His leering grin made her feel ill in truth, but Antiqua gritted her teeth and answered calmly, “No. You’re the man I want.”
An ugly laugh preceded his first unsteady
step. On the second step, Archie planted the pewter squarely on the back of his head. The bottle shattered on the floor, spilling a colorless stain over the wood as Weasel toppled.
“By God, Antiqua, we’ve done it!” exulted his lordship, tossing the battered bowl aside. He knelt and began winding rope around his latest victim’s arms and legs.
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” she cautioned. “Listen!”
The clatter of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels outside rang clear. They exchanged a speaking look and rushed behind the door.
Chapter 17
Two of the three occupants of the Winthrop’s blue salon sat exchanging virulent glares. Each appeared singularly disposed to outdo the other in depth and duration of a series of silent, deadly stares.
The stout gentleman began each volley by thrusting his mane of white hair from his wide brow and puffing out his already round cheeks. Such action invariably signaled the imminent firing of another fierce scowl from the lady.
In her turn, this formidable woman shook her triple chins with determination and expanded her massive chest with a mighty intake of air before leveling him with all the venom possible from two steely eyes beneath heavy bars of black brows.
The third member of this discordant party stalked the length of the room with an unbounded energy which seemed to offend the other two. By some unspoken accord, they intermittently ceased fire long enough to direct a mutual scowl of hostility upon him. His athletic frame was very fashionably encased in gray satin knee breeches and a maroon velvet evening jacket. A diamond-studded fob swung with animation against the embroidery of his waistcoat as he paced. The ormolu clock on the marble mantel had chimed the quarter-hour fully five times before both he and the fob were stopped in mid-stride by the precipitate entrance of Lady Julianne.
For a wavering instant, she poised, her evening cloak and jeweled headdress shimmering in the candlelight. Then with a shake of her blond curls, she flew into the energetic gentleman’s opened arms. “Father! Whatever are you doing here? And at this time of night?”
Dismissing these unpleasant inquiries with a fond squeeze, the Duke of Sedgwick addressed a brief nod over her shoulder. “Hullo, Winthrop.”
“Good evening, your Grace,” Sir Giles responded in mild surprise. “I trust you’ve not been waiting long upon our return?”
“No, no, not at all!” the Duke denied while a snort from the man seated to his left loudly disagreed. Ignoring this, Sedgwick went on, “The thing is, you see, we’ve come to see Vincent and learned at his lodgings that he was engaged to go out with you. So here we are!” His hopeful blue eyes gazed beyond Sir Giles. “Where’s that damned rascally son of mine?”
“He—he went to his rooms on an errand, Father,” Julianne replied with a peculiar reluctance. “But he promised to call upon us later, and you are welcome to wait.”
“Wait! Humph!” the stout man bellowed as he creaked to his feet. “Waiting’s all we’ve been doing, Lady Julianne.”
“Sir Arthur! How nice to see you,” her ladyship said as she glided toward him. “Indeed, if we’d but known you were here, we’d have left the opera even earlier. The performance was dreadful,” she finished with feeling as she discarded her cloak.
The frantic message sent in the glance to her husband indicated that seeing Sir Arthur was perhaps less than a pleasure, but she extended her hands graciously and smiled so charmingly, her visitor momentarily forgot his peevishness.
“Well, well, daresay it’s nice to see you, m’dear, or would be under other circumstances,” he amended with a lowering frown to the woman still seated on the settee.
“Look here, Greybill,” put in his Grace, “let’s say we go over to collect Vincent, eh? Rout him out and bring him back, eh?”
“Tres bien! If you go, you do not go without me,” exclaimed the woman in heavily accented English. “I must face this Monsieur Vincent, this man who ruins ma petite niece.” The exertion of her rapid rise set the breasts exposed above her plunging décolleté to bobbing like two great rounds of jellied beef tumbled upon a platter.
“Your niece?” Lady Julianne echoed, sweeping a bewildered look over her guests.
“Oh, eh, forgive me, m’dear,” said her father quickly. “This is Madame Yvonne Tallien. She and Sir Arthur came to the Abbey with the most astounding tale. They seem to believe that Vincent has abducted her niece—”
“My granddaughter!” Sir Arthur interjected on a huff.
“Vraiment! You wait, Monsieur, until she has been ruined to admit the relationship! You cruelly refused her mother, my sister—”
“You see what sort of deplorable mésalliance m’son contracted?” Greybill demanded thunderously. “And now—now the girl goes running off with that young rakehell—”
“She was abducted!” Mme. Tallien interposed indignantly.
“Abducted, eh? Then why, Madame, did the chit write you that she was traveling under m’son’s protection, eh? Answer me that!” his Grace charged.
“I tell you, Sedgwick,” Sir Arthur barked, “there’s something havey-cavey goin’ on here! When this woman,” he added with another penetrating glare at Mme. Tallien, “turned up with this tale—”
“But it is true!” Mme. Tallien insisted. “There was l’hôtelier who had it from ma petite’s own lips that she was being taken against her will. And if she had run away with this rogue, it would not be so wonderful, non! For she was an unprotected innocent, my poor Antiqua.”
“Ay, and whose fault is that, Madame?” Greybill questioned while stabbing his forefinger into the air before her nose.
“Well, b’God, if Vincent’s indeed run off with the granddaughter of my oldest friend, he’s gone beyond the pale!” Sedgwick announced in tones which projected easily to the servant’s hall. “There’ll be the devil to pay for this!”
“If you would all be seated,” Sir Giles interjected in a calm voice which nonetheless commanded attention, “I think we can put your minds to rest. Though it is true Miss Greybill traveled from France with Vincent—”
“Hélas! Did I not say so?” Mme. Tallien asked in melancholy victory. It was easy to see where Antiqua got her flair for the dramatic as, with her hand pressed to her ample bosom, her aunt sank ponderously to the striped blue silk settee.
“Madame, your niece has come to no hard, I assure you,” Winthrop said, guiding a glass of Madeira into her hand. “Miss Greybill has been living under my wife’s protection since her arrival in London.”
“Indeed, Antiqua has been quite safe,” avowed his wife.
“But before she reached London, what then, what then I ask you?” Greybill growled. “It’s no secret what sort of fellow Vincent is w’the ladies—forgive me, Sedgwick, but facts are facts.”
“Miss Greybill’s maid was in attendance at all times, sir,” Sir Giles explained. “May I suggest we all take a glass or two while we await Vincent’s return?”
Though this excellent suggestion seemed to mollify the gentlemen, Mme. Tallien was not to be so easily detoured from her object. “But if Antiqua is here, then I must see her now!” she cried. Her towering turban swayed dangerously as she attempted once again to come to her feet.
“I—I am afraid that isn’t possible,” Lady Julianne confessed quite unhappily.
“Eh? What’s this!” her father bawled.
“Antiqua isn’t here at the moment. She and Archie have gone to—to Vauxhall. A pleasure outing, that is all,” Julianne said too quickly. Under a trio of stares, she blushed.
Mme. Tallien appeared confused. “But who is this ‘Archie’ and what is my Antiqua doing with him, if it is M. Vincent who abducted her?”
“Archie is my son and heir, the Marquis of Rosewarren,” his Grace stated with a lofty air.
“So! You have raised both les fils to ravish young innocents, M. le Duc? First this Vincent, known everywhere to be a roué dangereux, and now this—this Archie, who has vanished with ma petite. Mon dieu!”
“I make little
doubt,” said a soft voice from the threshold, “that it is Miss Greybill who has led Rosewarren into a merry mischief.”
“Vincent!” chorused a round of voices suffused with varying degrees of warmth.
Lady Julianne sprang from her chair, but drew up short on her way to greet him. One glance at the grim set of his lips and brutally cold look in his blue eyes wiped away every trace of her relieved smile. “Oh, Jack, what has happened? Where are they?”
“They are not at Vauxhall—though they did indeed go there,” he answered, presenting her with the vestiges of a pink plume last seen gracing a certain bonnet known to them both. “But Miss Emma was quite right. Her mother did not venture from her house tonight. Whoever accompanied them to the Gardens, if anyone did, it was not the Humperdink woman.”
Julianne paled. “Oh, when I saw Emma Humperdink take her seat in that box at the theatre, I knew it meant disaster!”
“Nonsense, my love,” her husband chided gently. “Whatever scrape the pair of them have gotten into, it’s surely nothing more serious than a child’s prank. As Vincent said, a mischief, nothing more.”
Her troubled gaze flew from the bedraggled feather in her palm to her brother’s face. She found little reassurance in the forbidding countenance. Gradually, she took in his riding dress, the many capes of his coat and the shining boots. “You are going after them?”
“Certainly,” he confirmed. “I’ve sent my stablehands to make inquiries at the posting houses along the roads leading out of London. I’ll soon know which way they’ve gone and then, of course, I’ll bring them back. By now, Rosewarren is in all probability heartily tired of dancing to Antiqua’s tune.”
One of his rare smiles punctuated that last, ridding Julianne of her worst fears.
“But you! You are the roué who abducted my niece?” Mme. Tallien inquired intently, just as the two gentlemen clamored to know what the deuce was going on.
With a curl of his lip, Vincent bent her a low bow. As he straightened, she shook her chins. “But, non! He was most stupide, l’hôtelier! You are not such a one to ravish le jeune fille.”
