“Fetch the boy,” she heard a man say, and she froze. It sounded like Faircloth. Surely not? Where was Mandrake? She spun around and began to race up the stairs, a pair of heavy-booted feet chasing her. She didn’t dare slow down to look behind. If she could get to Mercy’s room first, she could lock the door and barricade it.
“Catch her!” Faircloth called out angrily.
She was running as fast as she could but it wasn’t fast enough. She had a stitch in her side as she launched herself up the next flight of stairs to the third floor. When a hand grabbed her ankle and pulled her down, she fell hard onto her knees, the wind knocked out of her. She tried to kick out and free herself, but one knee was sore and weak, and she couldn’t breathe. It felt as if her lungs were collapsing in her chest. She looked back then, and it was the man from the park, the one with the whiskers. He grinned at her as he hauled her down the few paltry steps she’d managed before he grabbed her. She scrabbled for purchase on the carpet with her nails, but to no avail. He yanked her up off the step and she stumbled into him. He stank of ale and smoke, and his leer frightened her. She pulled back, her shoulder protesting as he held tightly to her arm.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he told her.
“Of course she is,” Faircloth said, coming up the steps toward them. “She’s coming home with us. I have a carriage arriving in an hour to take us to Scotland where we will be married.” He looked at her then, his eyes cold and ruthless. “And only then will you get the boy back.” He grabbed Harry’s other arm and pulled her away from the large, whiskered man. With a twist of his head, he sent the other man up the stairs, toward Mercy.
“No!” Harry cried, trying to break away. She swung at Faircloth, hoping to scratch his eyes out. He avoided most of the blow, though his cheek was lightly scored by her nails. Without a word, he backhanded her into the wall and she slumped down dizzily, her cheek throbbing.
“How convenient of your lover to decide upon a career now,” he taunted her. “And poor Miss Jones, sent back to Kent. You should have been worried about not having more people in the house, my dear. It’s dangerous in London.”
Harry heard Mercy scream and begin to cry above, and she felt her eyes well up with tears. “Don’t hurt him,” she pleaded. “Please.”
“You should have thought of that months ago,” Faircloth said coldly. “Rest assured that if I have to hurt him in order to get you to marry me, then I will do it. You have forced my hand.”
She shook her head frantically. “No, no you don’t. I’ll do it. I’ll marry you.”
Faircloth bent over and caressed her aching cheek in a macabre mockery of affection. “What a good little wife you’re going to be.”
* * *
Roger stuck the key in the door to unlock it, but it was unnecessary. The door had been left unlocked. He frowned. He’d have to talk to Mandrake about that. It wasn’t safe, not even here in Manchester Square. It was well past midnight. Another long, exhausting day. Oddly enough, he’d never felt better.
As soon as he entered the house, the hair on the back of his neck rose. Something wasn’t right. The hall was in complete darkness and the house was utterly silent. He took the stairs two at a time as he raced up to Harry’s bedroom. He threw open the door only to have his fears confirmed. She wasn’t there and the bed was untouched. He rushed up another flight of steps to the nursery and saw another story. Mercy’s bed was a mess, his covers on the floor beside it, his little toy bear knocked off his table and laying on the carpet. The carpet was askew, pushed up against the wall as if someone had run in and slid on it.
“Harry!” he called out, no longer worried about staying quiet. “Harry! Mercy!” He ran back down the stairs to the first floor and back to the kitchen. “Mandrake! Mrs. Dempsey!”
There was a thud from the back of the kitchen. Roger followed the sound, frantically shoving a chair and table out of the way to reveal a door in the back wall. He pulled up the bar locking it and then yanked it open. Mandrake came stumbling out, holding a weeping Mrs. Dempsey. The two footmen followed.
“Where are they?” Roger asked, his voice shaking with panic. “What happened?”
“Mr. Faircloth came,” Mandrake told him, as he guided Mrs. Dempsey to a chair. “He had a man with him, and a gun. Lady Mercer was upstairs with little Lord Mercer. The men forced us into the storage room. I don’t know what happened after that. We heard some screaming and the boy crying and then they left.”
Roger didn’t wait to see if they were all right. He ran straight for the front door.
As he flew through the door, two shapes took form on the sidewalk. He stopped so abruptly that he skidded on the pavement. “Who are you?” he demanded.
The tall one hastily took off his hat. “It’s us, Mr. Templeton, Bardsley and Chuckles.”
Wiley’s two friends. “What’s going on?” he said, walking briskly over to them. “Where is she?” He grabbed Mr. Bardsley by the jacket and jerked him close. “If they’ve harmed a hair on either one of their heads, you’ll pay for it.”
“We ain’t got nothing to do with it,” Mr. Bardsley said, talking rapidly. “We was still watching the house for Wiley.” He pointed to the park. “From over there. Saw them go in. The butler let ’em in, he did, though not happy about it. We thought they was expected. Then a few minutes later they come out again with the babe crying something awful and the nob draggin’ the lady. ‘Chuckles,’ I says, ‘this is what we’re supposed to be watching for.’ So we followed ’em to a place over on Bedford Street. Then we come back here to catch you.”
He was out of breath since he’d spoken so quickly, and Roger let go of him. “Faircloth’s is on Bedford. Go and fetch Wiley and Sir Hilary, and hurry.” He ran for the mews, where his horse was stabled, and hoped the beast wasn’t too tired since he’d already ridden all the way from Holborn tonight.
Roger’s heart was trying to pound its way out of his chest, he was so frightened. He should have known that Faircloth would try something desperate once he knew they were on to him. He should have anticipated this and taken precautions. But he’d been so caught up in his new studies and his plans with Harry that he’d forgotten the danger was still present. He’d left them unprotected.
He saddled the horse in minutes, hoping he’d done it right in his frantic rush, or he’d end up on his arse in the street. He just prayed he got to them in time. If not, he really would have to kill Faircloth.
* * *
“Do sit down, my dear,” Faircloth said congenially as he shoved Harry into a small parlor with threadbare furnishings. There was a fire burning and the room was smoky, as if the chimney was partially blocked, but even with the fire it was chill and damp.
They were near Covent Garden. Faircloth’s lodgings were far below what she’d expected. She knew, of course, that he was in dun territory, but she had assumed he still had enough credit to get by. She was already frightened out of her wits. Seeing the evidence of his desperation nearly had her insensible. She had to think. Think, think, think.
“There is no need to go haring off to Scotland,” she said. “Post the banns here. I’ve said I will marry you.”
Faircloth gave her an incredulous look. “You really do think I’m stupid, don’t you?” He walked over to the sofa at her right and she shrank down into the chair behind her, not wishing to invite his violence again. Her cheek ached, making speech difficult. “I know you think Templeton will come racing to your rescue,” he said sarcastically, “but you may put that hope to rest. I have hired men who will make sure he never gets as far as my door.”
Harry’s stomach lurched. She hadn’t thought she could be more frightened, but she’d been wrong. “You’re going to kill him?” she whispered with horror.
“Of course not,” Faircloth scoffed. “You are turning out to be far less intelligent than I gave you credit for. Why should I kill him? We shall be married within a fortnight, and he can do nothing then but sit back and watch our happy marriage unfold.
I only need to keep him at bay for that fortnight, long enough for us to get to Scotland and marry. I’ll not risk my neck in a noose over him.”
Harry breathed a sigh of relief so profound that she felt light-headed. “Yes, of course, you’re right.”
“Naturally,” Faircloth said. He brushed his pant leg off and rubbed at a smudge on his boot with a frown. “Once we return from Scotland, I will allow you to see Mercy briefly before he’s sent down to school.”
“School? But he’s only two,” she said, confused.
“Never too early to start,” he told her. “I’ve found a little place in Wales that will take him off our hands. True, it will be a perilous journey, but Mr. Baker—you met him this evening—assures me he can get the boy there without undue injury.”
Harry’s heart, which had begun to slow down, raced in fear again. Faircloth was going to kill Mercy. With Mercy dead, the money would be hers as his sole heir. Then he could kill her, too, and it would all be his. She hadn’t believed him capable of it before, but now, watching him, she did. His eyes were flat and cold—frightening. She’d feared his state of mind, and those fears were confirmed. He was desperate and quite, quite insane.
“I hope so,” she said as calmly as she could. “Should Mercy meet with an unfortunate accident before he reaches his majority, his estate will revert to the crown,” she lied.
“What?” Faircloth practically screamed. “Why did you not tell me this?”
Harry reared back in her seat, her eyes wide. “I didn’t know that it would be of interest to you.”
“Not be of interest to me?” he said menacingly, rising slowly from the sofa. His eyes were narrowed, one ticking slightly in the corner. “Your sole use to me is that money,” he ground out. “You and the child. Fucking you was about as distasteful as fucking a dog. I earned that money.” He straightened and adjusted his cravat, his face clearing with a smile. The transformation was ghastly. “Fine,” he said. “We shall guard the boy zealously until his majority. As his father, I will still manage his estate until that time.” He walked over and cupped her cheek. “And just think, my dear. You shall have me all to yourself again. You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?”
Without thinking, she jerked her head away from his hateful touch. “No,” she said.
“No?” he asked in genuine confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I will marry you, but I will not lay with you ever again.” She spoke very clearly. He didn’t want her, just the money, and marriage alone would suffice for that.
“But you must,” he said simply. “An unconsummated marriage is not legal. Tsk, tsk,” he said, shaking his head. “You don’t think I’ll give you the opportunity to seek an annulment, do you?”
She stared at him aghast and couldn’t keep the revulsion from her face. He saw it, and he enjoyed it. “I liked that you were miserable,” he said with satisfaction. “A woman’s place is to please a man, not the other way around. Your enjoyment had absolutely nothing to do with our bedding.”
“Obviously,” she said stoically, while inside she was cringing. How would she get through it again? She’d sworn never, ever to do that. And now that she knew what it could be, what it was with Roger … she shuddered and her stomach heaved.
“I will enjoy keeping a baby in your belly,” he said, walking around the room, picking up objects and inspecting them before putting them back. “I’m sure it won’t be a problem to get you pregnant, as I’ve done it before, haven’t I?” He peeked coyly at her over his shoulder, as if expecting her to compliment his braggadocio. “And you do well enough on your knees that I can perform my husbandly duties on a fairly regular schedule.” He turned and pointed. “But don’t expect me to be faithful, my dear.” He preened in front of a dingy mirror. “My affections are quite popular among the ladies, don’t you know.”
“I will not lay with you,” she said, enunciating each word. “It is not necessary. I cannot prove the marriage unconsummated since I am not a virgin.”
He paused to consider her words, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. When I was fucking you at your husband’s request, you were a compliant, docile cow. Now look at you.” He held out his hand with a look of disgust. “No, I think you need the humiliation of it to be a biddable wife.”
He was on the far side of the room, behind the sofa. Harry rose and nonchalantly took a step toward the door. If she could escape to Covent Garden, she could fetch Roger. Faircloth wouldn’t hurt Mercy as long as he believed he needed him alive to get the money. She had to believe that. To stay here and follow through with his schemes was madness. “I will be a biddable wife without it,” she promised, letting her fear slip into her voice.
“I doubt that,” Faircloth said. He looked up at her and frowned, noting her nearness to the door. Before he could react, she ran for the door and pulled it open. With a bellow of rage he came behind her. She’d barely dashed through the door when she was yanked off her feet by his hand in her skirt. She slammed against the floor, landing on her side and cracking her elbow on the wooden planks. She gasped and tried to roll away, but Faircloth kicked her in her side and hauled her to her feet by her hair.
“I think perhaps you need a lesson in humiliation now,” he hissed in her ear. She struggled against his hold but he ruthlessly dragged her back to the parlor and threw her on the sofa facedown. He sat on her back and she was helpless, unable to fight him, barely able to breathe. “I had a case of the French disease, you know,” he told her, his breathlessness a testament to how strongly she’d fought him, “about a year after leaving you and Mercer. Too much wine, women, and song, I suppose, with the money Mercer gave me to impregnate his breeder. Lucky for you it’s cleared up now.”
She renewed her struggles but he lay down full against her back, shoving his knees between hers, ripping her dress in the process. He put an arm against the back of her neck, forcing her face down into the sofa cushion. She no longer struggled, fighting just to breathe. She could hear him as he rustled with his clothing, squirming on top of her, and she knew what he was going to do. She simply shut down her mind and focused on breathing. If she survived this, she vowed to herself she would find a way to kill him.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Roger left his horse several doors down from Faircloth’s. He didn’t want to alert anyone to his arrival. He slunk behind a garden wall across the street from the row of flats where Faircloth lived. There were two fellows skulking about in the stairwell that led down to the kitchen near Faircloth’s door. They were half hidden in the shadows, but not well enough.
“I see two,” a voice said quietly behind Roger. He spun around and Wiley grinned at him in the dark. “You got here fast,” he said.
“I raced here when I got back to Manchester Square and found her gone,” Roger said incredulously. “How did you get here so quickly?”
Wiley frowned. “I was here already, keeping an eye on Faircloth. When they all showed up, I sent Bardsley and Chuckles to get you.”
“They got me. They failed to mention you were already here.” He was ridiculously glad to see the other man. “I sent them to fetch you and Hil.”
Wiley cursed. “Those two are going to be the death of us all,” he said, spitting on the ground in disgust. “We’ll be lucky if they make it to Hil’s.”
“What did you see?” Roger asked, turning back to the house. The two men were whispering furiously in the stairwell.
“He’s got ’em all right,” Wiley said unhappily. “Whiskers—Thom Baker by name—was carrying little Mercy, and Faircloth had Lady Mercer.”
“Had?” Roger asked, dreading the answer. “What condition was she in?”
“Fine, as far as I could tell,” Wiley told him. “She was walking and talking on her own, though Faircloth had ahold of her arm, dragging her inside. Been quiet ever since.”
Roger took the first solid breath he’d had since he pushed open the unlocked door at Manchester Square. “What about those two?�
� he asked, pointing to the stairwell. “How do we incapacitate them?”
“How do we what?” Wiley asked. “Christ Almighty. If you want to know how to get rid of ’em, we talk.”
“Talk?” Roger said incredulously. “They don’t look much as if they care for conversation.”
Wiley shrugged. “Don’t know ’em, but know the type. They’re here for the money. Don’t much care where it comes from, see? So if you offer them money, they’ll walk. They don’t really care what the whole thing is about.”
“And how am I supposed to offer them money I haven’t got?” Roger asked in exasperation. “Do you think I made a stop at the Bank of England on the way?”
Wiley sighed and reached into his waistcoat. He pulled out a stack of notes that made Roger’s eyes bulge. “What on earth?” he asked in a harsh whisper.
“A man’s got to be prepared,” Wiley told him, waving the money at him. “And I don’t have an account at the Bank of England.” He looked perturbed and then blurted out, “I’ve still got a bit of business going on, all right? Picked up my take tonight.”
“Quite frankly I don’t care where it came from,” Roger said honestly, “if it will help me get Harry and Mercy out of there.”
Wiley winked at him and then began to saunter across the street.
* * *
There was a pounding on the door and Faircloth hesitated above her. Harry’s vision was fading as she gasped into the sofa. She knew she was on the verge of unconsciousness because she couldn’t breathe properly, but she had a curious sense of disassociation from events. There was a crash and Faircloth hollering above her, tearing at her skirts, and then suddenly he was gone and she rolled off the sofa to the floor, where she lay gulping in great, huge breaths of precious, stale, smoke-filled air.
Samantha Kane Page 25
