Anthony didn’t answer.
“Doesn’t she?” Gillingham pressed him again.
“I know what is inside the locket. If you want a prisoner, take me.”
“What if I take your family prisoner instead?” A sadistic twinkle of delight flashed through his shadowed eyes. “What if I detain your father in the tower, humiliate your mother, ravish your sisters? Condemn you all as traitors?”
The viscount bounded for the desk. But two robust arms shoved him back into his seat.
“You see, Lord Hastings?” The fiend offered a satisfying smirk. “I have a hold over you. Your family honor is far more precious to you than a mere gypsy. You’re not going to reveal what’s inside the locket. I would destroy you. And your blue-blooded instincts are far too sharp to let such a fate befall you. You will do whatever I tell you. But I have no such hold over the gypsy.”
Anthony all but growled, “Sabrina doesn’t understand what’s inside the locket. She can’t even read!”
“I’m not willing to take that chance.” Gillingham resumed pacing. “Now that locket is rightfully mine. It was stolen from me five years ago with very sensitive information.”
Sensitive information? Anthony made an internal snort. Sensitive indeed. The scoundrel wanted money. Money owed to him, no doubt, by the unfortunate resident of the address in the locket.
Well, if mere wealth was the issue, Anthony would offer it in abundance. Whatever it took to get Sabrina back.
“How much?”
Gillingham paused and quirked a brow. “Pardon?”
“How much for the girl? That is what all this nonsense over British security is all about, isn’t it? A ploy for money?”
“Oh, Lord Hastings.” He shook his head like a disappointed father scolding a son. “Your paltry wealth could never entice me to betray my country.”
His words triggered a memory. Anthony could clearly see in his mind the arena of the Lion’s Gate, the tables scattered across the main floor, the patrons clustered together at each of the tables. He quickly skimmed over the faces of the gentlemen, recalling those he knew, remembering how he had once thought the group a rather eclectic bunch. But on closer reflection, he realized there was one similarity that all the men shared. Jeremy Fielding, the third marquess of Winbourne, for instance, wasn’t always the present marquess. In fact, he was never destined to become the marquess. As second born, the man was devoid of a fortune and was impelled to make the military his career. It was only after his elder brother had died in a riding accident, that Jeremy sold his commission and assumed his place as the next marquess of Winbourne.
General-Major Archibald Adington had served under Wellington himself, so it was no secret the man was associated with the army. And then there was the politician, Lord Bradford Derwent, who, though he had never served in the army, had caused quite a stir when he’d made some rather ambiguous comments in Parliament concerning the war with the French. Comments that could be construed as treasonous. And then, of course, there was Vincent, another man involved in the war.
The implication was suddenly clear—though Anthony loathed to acknowledge it. “You’re a spy.”
“Very good, Lord Hastings. That’s one matter resolved.”
Anthony didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. He just wanted to pay the scoundrel a hefty sum and be done with the whole ghastly business of bargaining for another’s life.
But there was one piece of evidence he could not deny, something he had seen with his own two eyes—Gillingham at court.
Anthony had tried then to dismiss what he had witnessed, convinced it was only his imagination gone wild, but he could no longer refute the obvious. No ordinary scoundrel would have that kind of access to the royal palace, and Anthony was forced to accept the man’s claim, however much he deplored it.
“And the locket?” asked Anthony next.
“The locket was stolen by a French spy. A royalist supporter who wanted to see the ancien régime restored in France. She joined my coterie some years ago, posing as an English patriot. Her loyalty was vigorously tested, of course, but in the end it was all just a ruse. She needed the information only my spies could acquire.”
“And where is she now?”
“Dead. But we never did find the locket.”
Anthony settled back against his chair in a daze, all sorts of baffling thoughts swimming through his head. “Then I assume your club serves as a front for your true intentions, and yet it is filled with British officers and politicians. Why spy on them?”
“To ensure there are no traitors. Should I happen upon a potential radical, the individual is encouraged to conform.”
“Blackmail, you mean?”
“Precisely.”
“And if you find you have trapped an innocent man?”
“He is released without much fuss—though perhaps stripped of a few coins.”
Anthony grumbled, “Vincent, for instance?”
“Yes, Mr. Longhurst proved to be a threat only to himself. Not much of a card player, I’m afraid.” Gillingham returned to his seat. “I see all this astonishes you, Lord Hastings. With so many balls to attend and whores to bed, I’m not surprised you haven’t noticed our country is in peril. Daily I hear of conspiracies to overthrow the government. There is always a riot needing to be suppressed somewhere in England. Economic and social discontent is breeding violence. The people are clamoring for a revolution of their own. And surely you, Lord Hastings, as a member of the realm, do not want to lose your head on an English version of Madame Guillotine?”
Anthony made no reply.
“I didn’t think so. Now let me paint you an even grimmer picture. Habeas corpus has been suspended. I have the authority to throw any suspected conspirator into the jail without trial or witness. I have executed a number of would-be conspirators, and yet, despite all of my best efforts to crush any sort of revolution, the threats to the crown and government persist. Now what do you suppose would happen here in England, if the frail political stability in France were to snap and the people there were to launch another revolution?”
Anthony let out a deep breath. “England would be inspired to launch a revolution of her own.”
“Precisely. Now do you see my predicament? To keep England safe, I must keep France safe, too. An arduous task. And you, Lord Hastings, are making my duty all the more difficult by withholding the locket.”
Brow wrinkled, Anthony remarked, “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand.”
“You had best make me understand, because I’m not about to let you murder an innocent woman over a scrap of paper inside of a locket.”
“That scrap of paper has the power to hurl France into another revolution if it falls into the wrong hands.” Gillingham adjusted his neck cloth, which had twitched out of place in his earlier outburst. “The current King Louis has two warring parties inside his moderate government: the ultraroyalists, who want the ancien régime restored, and the ex-revolutionists. Now the ultraroyalists realize they have very little chance of restoring the old regime, unless, of course, another French king was to come along and challenge the current King Louis for power.”
“But there is no other French king.”
“My spy in Austria believed otherwise.” Propping his elbows on the desk, Gillingham leaned forward to whisper: “Shortly before she was killed, my agent managed to smuggle an address into England. I was away from London when the message arrived. Upon my return, I learned it had been stolen, and inside the locket was gone forever the location of a small Austrian village, where a young man, believed to be King Louis XVII, resides.”
Anthony quirked a brow. “But the boy-king died in prison more than twenty years ago.”
“Yes, that is the official report. A victim of tuberculosis, the young Louis-Charles was buried with the rest of the royal family. But my sources tell me the boy was smuggled out of the temple by royalist sympathizers and into Austria, another youth’s bo
dy left in the boy-king’s place. Once safely removed from the carnage of France, Louis-Charles was to remain in seclusion until such time as he could be restored to the throne. But something went wrong. The young king’s sympathizers lost all trace of their monarch. Some sympathizers were beheaded, others fled France for their lives, and little by little, knowledge of the boy-king’s whereabouts disappeared.
“When the time came for the government to establish a constitutional monarchy, an heir was needed, so the boy’s uncle was proclaimed King Louis XVIII. And now he is responsible for France’s recovery. And I am not about to permit another king to enter France and instigate a revolution.”
Anthony remained thoughtful for a moment. Such plots and conspiracies seemed too flamboyant to be true, and yet, why else would Gillingham scour the countryside for the elusive locket these last five years? And there was an address scribbled on the scrap of paper. That much Anthony could acknowledge.
“What will you do with the alleged king in Austria once you find him?” wondered Anthony.
“First, establish his true identity. If he is Louis-Charles, I will ensure he never makes a bid for the throne.”
“You will kill him?”
“Nothing so dramatic. It is unwise to murder a monarch. Should rumor ever escape of his second death, it, too, might trigger a revolution. Better to keep Louis-Charles alive—but out of sight.”
“But Sabrina need not die.”
“Yes, she must!” The dark and wintry glow in his eyes was back. “I have the lives of you and your kin in the palm of my hand. I would crush you all were you ever to betray me, but I have no such hold over the gypsy.”
“I will guarantee she never reveals what is inside the locket.”
“Preposterous!” Down went a fist. “She is a wandering beggar. You will have no more power over her than I.”
“Then I will take her as my wife.”
The offer had a peculiar impact on Anthony. Here he was, demanding the right to a wife. A more unlikely situation he could not have envisioned. And yet, pure instinct had propelled him to present the solution: one Gillingham would have to accept, since Anthony would never accept the forfeit of Sabrina’s life.
“The law will give me authority over my wife,” Anthony went on to explain the credence of his plan. “You would have a hold over both of us.”
But Gillingham only snorted. “You would never take a gypsy for your wife. It would be social suicide.”
Anthony heard none of his skepticism. The crushing impulse to whisk Sabrina away from brutality—away from an empty death—was the sole instinct he heeded. “I will surrender the locket if you will give me the gypsy. That is the final bargain.”
Gillingham leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful gaze. “So you want to marry the wench?” He paused, then, “Very well. I’ll bind you to her myself. You will be married at dawn. If the secret of the locket is ever revealed, her disgrace will be yours—and your whole family’s. I will have you both executed for treason. Future Kennington generations will have no hope of ever showing their faces in England again. Do you understand?”
“I understand. Now where is Sabrina?”
He paused. “In Bedlam.”
Chapter 28
B edlam. A hospital—if it could be called such a place—for the insane. Anthony had only heard tales of the appalling conditions of imprisonment. It had been a popular excursion some years back for members of the gentry to tour Bedlam and its host of “abominable creatures.” But Anthony had never actually seen the grotesque surroundings for himself. With no interest in the exploitation of England’s mad citizens, he’d never participated in such a tour.
But now he was going to get a private look inside the squalid walls. A sight he would never forget, he was sure.
The looming wood and iron gates stood before him. Gillingham shouted for the doors to be opened, and it wasn’t long before the feeble entrance rolled back on its rusted hinges.
The putrid stench smacked him across the face the moment the gates parted. Followed by the blast of foul air came the racket. A horrid din of desperate pleas and moans and cries of pain.
It got to him. All the hapless and forgotten voices weeping for salvation. And to think, Sabrina was among the wretched lot!
A burning, twisting need to save her from a soulless existence gripped him. He wanted her in his arms. Safe. He wanted to feel the warmth of her body, inhale the sweet scent of her hair, taste the briny sweat of her skin. Everything about her thrilled him. Made him feel alive. Like his true self. Without her, he was lost. He accepted that now. She was always on his mind, dwelling in his heart. He could sense her even when she wasn’t near. All he had to do was close his eyes and remember. Remember the tender touch of her fingers on his flesh, stirring within him emotions of frightening depth. Remember the sound of her spirited laughter. A sound he had heard only once. A sound he hoped to hear again and again—for the rest of his life.
Anthony entered the hospital, escorted by Gillingham and his two hulking brutes. It was dark inside, so much that a torch was needed to light the way. Anthony would have preferred to stumble through the darkness, though. The glow of torchlight only made the pervasive squalor all the more evident.
He shuddered to think of Sabrina buried within the doomed walls. Walls that seemed to stretch on toward interminable blackness. It was an endless column of stone. Oblivion. And he suddenly felt as trapped as all the inmates hollering behind locked doors.
The entourage passed the whole of Bedlam, or so it seemed. Eternal corridors going this way and that. Finally, they came to a stop in an obscure corner of the hospital.
Anthony waited for the cell door to be unlocked, his heart thundering. If so much as a scratch was on his gypsy, he’d tear out Gillingham’s throat.
The door swung back. Huddled in a nook of the tiny cell was Sabrina, quietly weeping and rocking herself for comfort.
It hit him the moment he saw her. The feeling welled in his chest until he could scarcely breathe. He loved her. Every fiber of his being thrummed with renewed energy at the sight of her.
Anthony fell to his knees, and with a rough movement, yanked his shivering gypsy into his arms, so desperate with relief to feel her snug against him once more.
“Everything will be all right,” he whispered by her ear, burying his face in her mussed hair.
But she wailed all the louder for his words of comfort, as if she didn’t believe him, as though she considered him some figment of her imagination come to torment her with hollow promises of well-being.
“Sabrina, it’s me.” He cradled her moist cheeks between his palms and pressed a hard kiss to her sweet lips. “You’re safe. No one will ever hurt you again.”
He drank in the briny tears from her eyes, and then smothered her back in his embrace, stroking her long, sable locks in tender regard.
Her cries crushed his soul like no other sound. He didn’t know what to say or do to convince her he was really there, that she was safe at last.
“Put your arms around me,” he said to her softly. “Let me take you away from here.”
Without hesitation, she slipped her trembling fingers behind his neck, and gripped him with the strength of an iron leg trap.
Carefully, Anthony scooped her into his arms, relishing in the relief and pleasure he felt at holding her so close.
Sabrina’s sobs dwindled once out of Bedlam. Quietly, firmly she held onto him throughout the carriage ride back to the Lion’s Gate, and even up the staircase to one of the club’s bedrooms.
Once inside, Anthony revealed to Gillingham the location of the hidden locket. The villain would have little trouble entering the townhouse, he was sure, and then departing without anyone the wiser.
After the confession had been made, the door was secured, and Anthony and Sabrina were left alone in the room to await their wedded union at dawn.
The bathtub was first to catch Anthony’s eye. It was at the far end of the room, but he could sti
ll see the steam drifting upward from the tranquil water.
He wasn’t surprised to see the tin tub. A spy like Gillingham would have to be well organized, with an eye for detail, and a couple about to recite the wedding vows should have the decency of a bath before the considerable occasion.
It was still rather difficult for Anthony to accept he would be married by morning. It usually took weeks to acquire a marriage license. One had to post the banns first. Only the archbishop of Canterbury had the power to grant a special license, allowing a couple the privilege to marry at any time. And yet, Anthony was sure he would be married come sunrise. Somehow, he suspected Gillingham would have no trouble in obtaining the archbishop’s permission.
He looked down to the woman in his arms and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. She was still shivering, and he went straight to work to rectify that.
Anthony set her down to the ground, but she maintained her tight hold on him, shifting her hands from his neck to his waist. He didn’t mind the close proximity. He, too, was still getting used to the fact that she was safe, and he didn’t want to take his hands off her.
“Here, let’s get rid of these.” Slowly, he nudged and wiggled her damp blouse off her shoulders, then pushed down her skirt. The clothes lay in a heap on the floor and he added to the pile her wool chemise and boots.
Lifting her into the warm tin tub, he helped her settle into the water. But she didn’t let go of him even then. And so, Anthony knelt beside the tub, stroking her backside and whispering soothing locutions into her ear.
In time, Sabrina’s tremors subsided. But he continued to caress her, to rub his hands all over her body, shooing away the cold, and at the same time, convincing himself she was really all right.
He noted the wounds at her wrists, where she’d been bound, blistered and clogged with dried blood. He went to wash away the blood, but she winced when the water touched her in such a sensitive spot.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and lightly kissed both wounds. Yanking at the knotted neck cloth fastened around his throat, he removed the white linen fabric and tore it in half, winding each piece around one of her injured wrists. “It will heal in time,” he promised, then brought her head down to rest in the groove between his neck and shoulder.
A Forbidden Love Page 27
