Much Ado about a Widow (The Widows' Club Book 4)

by Jenna Jaxon

  “Right high-and-mighty, aren’t you?” The kidnapper with the flattened nose chuckled as another outrider rode up beside him. “Is the new team ready, Tanner?”

  “Aye. Just coming up now.” The new ruffian leered down at her. “It’ll only take a few minutes to change ’em. Of course, it wouldn’t take much longer if we had a mind to occupy ourselves with these two for a bit.”

  A sickening lurch in her stomach almost made Georgie cast up her accounts there and then. The deserted clearing where they’d stopped held nothing and no one but them and the kidnappers. She clutched Lulu tighter. No one was coming to help them. She and Clara were completely at the mercy of these dastardly men. Swallowing hard, she blinked back tears and drew herself up to her full five foot two. What could she do if the men decided to attack them? She must think clearly and come up with a plan.

  “Are you truly daft, Tanner?” The odd-looking man shot a menacing look at his companion. “The master would skin us alive and dump us in the Thames if we laid a finger on her or her maid. Go see to the team before I shoot you just for being ignorant.”

  Gravelly voice muttering things Georgie was just as happy she couldn’t hear, Tanner turned his horse and jogged toward the tree line where a team of four horses was emerging from the forest.

  Georgie’s mouth dropped open. “Where did they come from?”

  “My master’s laid his plans well, don’t you think?” The man she now thought of as Odd Fellow chuckled. “He’s had this whole scheme planned for days, including stashing a team in an abandoned barn half a mile from here. He said if we didn’t have to go to an inn to change horses, you wouldn’t have a chance to escape.”

  Incensed, Georgie straightened and looked Odd Fellow in the eyes. “And just who is this master planner you work for? I demand to know who he is.”

  A loud laugh filled the clearing. “You are a spitfire, aren’t you, my lady? The master warned us of that.” The man’s gaze grew cold. “He gave instructions that I tell you nothing, so nothing is what you’ll get out of me.” He glanced toward the approaching team and quickly dismounted. “Best move out of the road now.” Drawing a pistol, he motioned her and Clara onto the brown grass on the opposite side of the woods.

  With a glance at her maid, whose eyes looked ready to start from their sockets, Georgie strode onto the crackling grass, thinking furiously. There must be some way to escape. “While you change the team my maid and I will need to use the necessary. We usually do at the inn when we stop. Come, Clara.” She nodded toward a series of thick bushes not five yards away. If they could make it to those and duck behind them, perhaps they could evade the men long enough to get away.

  “Very well, my lady. You can go.” Odd Fellow nodded, then seized Clara by the arm. She shrieked, and he pressed the pistol to her head. “But if you don’t return, I put a ball in her head.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Georgie wanted very badly to open her mouth and berate the man as he deserved. However, one look at Clara’s face—tears trickling down her cheeks, eyes filled with terror—made Georgie bite her tongue and say nothing. No need to antagonize him and make him hurt poor Clara.

  Odd Fellow nodded toward the bushes. “Get on with it, then.”

  “Come, Lulu.” Georgie started for the makeshift necessary.

  “Leave the dog here.” Odd Fellow didn’t move his pistol, but nodded toward Lulu, who growled deep in her throat. “If you run I’ll shoot it too.”

  Georgie stopped, clenching her fists. This man would pay dearly for his treatment of them. Without a word, she passed the leash to Clara, who seized it as though it were a lifeline, then stalked toward the bushes, thinking furiously. She’d been in difficult circumstances before and gotten out of them, although never quite as horrible as this. Still she was confident that she could thwart this elusive “master” and escape his men. It was merely a question of when she could make her move.

  Chapter Three

  When several minutes had passed and no inspiration had presented itself, Georgie reluctantly made her way from behind the bushes. Clara stood stock-still, her eyes straining to see the pistol pressed to her temple. Lulu barked a short yip and darted to Georgie, pulling her leash from Clara’s nerveless fingers.

  “You’d better go now, Clara.” Georgie indicated the bushes. “No telling when we’ll have the chance again.” She turned a furious gaze on Odd Fellow. “Put that silly pistol away. Stop terrorizing my maid, or I’ll make certain your master hears of it.”

  The man sneered, but uncocked the pistol and pushed Clara forward. “What makes you think the master cares what I do to your maid?”

  Sobbing, Clara picked up her skirts and fled behind the bushes.

  “He may not care about that, but he obviously cares about me if he’s going to such lengths to kidnap me.” She scowled at the man until he looked away from her. “He may be perturbed to find that I was upset by your mistreatment of me and my servant. If he wants me to cooperate with him, I might do so if he agreed to dismiss you.”

  The ruffian scarcely seemed to hear her, his attention fixed on the rustling behind them in the bushes.

  “Or I could tell him to shoot you.”

  Odd Fellow jerked his head back to her, eyes wide, a snarl on his lips. “What?”

  Georgie smiled serenely. “I think that would be simpler for him in the long run. Dead men tell no tales.”

  A snarl on his lips, Odd Fellow gripped his pistol tighter and motioned her toward the carriage. “Get in.”

  “I’ll wait until my maid returns, thank you.” Gathering Lulu into her arms, Georgie faced the ruffian. “I wouldn’t want anyone to get left behind.”

  As if to punctuate her mistress’s words, Lulu growled at Odd Fellow and bared her teeth.

  Odd Fellow drew back. “Keep that mongrel away from me.”

  “Mongrel?” How dare he disparage Lulu’s ancestry? “We have traced Lulu’s lineage back to the original spaniels bred by King Charles I. I daresay her pedigree is much more illustrious than your own.”

  Red-faced, Odd Fellow dipped his brows down in a frown. He had started to raise the pistol at Georgie when Clara stumbled from behind the bushes, and he swung it around, training it on her instead. “About time.” He shoved the gun into the waist of his rough breeches and grabbed Georgie’s shoulder, making her wince. “Now get in that carriage before I make you wish you had.”

  Shoving Lulu in before her, Georgie climbed in and settled in the forward-facing seat. When Clara followed her, she patted the seat next to her. Odd Fellow slammed the door, and moments later there was the clinking of harness as the horses started.

  “What are we going to do, my lady?” Clara whispered despite their relative seclusion.

  Her bravado ebbing as soon as the door shut, Georgie slumped against the seat, blinking back tears of fear and outrage. How could this be happening to her?

  More in need of comfort than ever before, she grasped the maid’s hands, trying to draw strength from the simple human contact. She couldn’t admit to Clara she didn’t know what to do. She had to be strong for both of them. “Give me some time, and I’ll come up with a plan. I always do.” Forcing a smile, she patted the servant’s hands. “I helped my brother escape from my father’s castle when he’d locked us both in. Surely I can devise a way to get us out of this scrape.”

  Inns flashed past at intervals, but they had no hope of stopping and so no possibility of rescue. They’d obviously have to wait until they reached journey’s end—and her true kidnapper—to put a plan into action. But what plan?

  In the event the kidnappers took them to a private estate, their options were grim. The only people likely present at such an establishment would be servants or tenants of the “master.” Not the sort of folk who would put themselves out to rescue a woman their master had kidnapped.

  Georgie clenched her jaw until her teeth ached. If that were the case, they would have to split up and simply run for it, back up the road they had come down, and
pray they found either a village or a passerby who would assist them.

  If their destination turned out to be an inn and if she, Clara, and Lulu could get free, they could shriek, run, and take refuge in the inn and pour out the story to the innkeeper or any other kind soul who would listen. Georgie could mention her father and a sizeable reward for helping them. Getting free from the kidnappers was the sticking point. Unless . . .

  “Clara.” She leaned toward her maid and spoke low. “I’ve come up with a plan.”

  “Saints be praised!”

  “Shhh. Listen.”

  After Georgie had explained everything twice, Clara wrung her hands and said, “I don’t know that I can run fast enough, my lady.”

  “You’ll be fine.” Georgie squeezed Clara’s cold hands. The maid must try, or they would be lost. “I have every confidence in you.”

  “I’ll try my best.” Clara nodded, though her puckered brow said she was still unconvinced.

  The carriage rolled on until at last Georgie spied clusters of small houses, as if they were on the edge of a town or city. Scattered cottages gave way to larger dwellings, although they too were spaced well apart. Not a very large town, then. Despite the closed carriage, Georgie detected a bit of salt and fish on the air. Were they being taken to a seaside town? Brighton came first to mind, but there would have been more houses by now. She must think of a smaller town.

  Summoning to mind a map of England, Georgie tried to recall all the cities and towns near the seacoast, but gave up. There must be hundreds of small or middling ones. They could be anywhere on the southern coast of England.

  The thought of Brighton, however, took her back several years, to the days immediately after her marriage to Isaac. They had managed a brief wedding trip to Brighton, less than a week, yet she had very vivid memories of that time. Her throat thickened with tears as it often did when she thought of her late husband. Oh, how she wished he were here.

  No, she could not be weak now. If anyone was going to rescue her, it would have to be her. Pulling her mind away from the sweet thoughts of her husband, Georgie recalled her plan. At least the destination seemed to be a town rather than an estate. That would make escape easier, though not by much.

  “My lady.” Clara leaned over to her. “Do you smell that?”

  “What?” Georgie sniffed again. The smell of fish had gotten stronger.

  “That fishy smell. We’re near the water, I’ll be bound.” The wide blue eyes had a panicked look about them, like those of a horse about to buck its rider.

  “I noticed that a few moments ago. Is that troubling to you?” Perhaps the scent was making Clara ill. “Are you feeling unwell?”

  “Oh, no, my lady. But I thought if they’ve brought us to the water they may plan to make away with us, over the ocean, to sell us as slaves in some heathen country.” Clara burst into tears. “I’ve read about such horrible things happening to good Christian women.” A high keening filled the carriage.

  “Hush, Clara.” Good Lord. Of all the times for her maid to have hysterics. “Of course they won’t do that. They’re going to ransom us is all, just like you said.”

  “But Lady Georgina, what if that’s not this master’s plan at all? He may want the money, but knows your father won’t pay.” Clara dug into her reticule, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped her streaming eyes. “He could send us somewhere horrible, like Turkey, and sell us to a Pasha for his harem!”

  “What?” Georgie’s mouth dropped open. What could have given Clara such a fanciful idea as that? “Whatever gave you such a wicked idea, Clara? And where did you even hear the word ‘harem’?”

  “Did you never read any of Lord Byron’s poems, my lady?” The maid’s indignant tone almost surprised a laugh out of Georgie. “I’ve read many of his tales, and learned a thing or two about those awful heathens. The Giaour and The Bride of Abydos both tell of these harems where the Pasha has many, many women held there just to”—Clara’s cheeks turned apple red—“serve his needs.”

  “Well, no, I cannot say I have read many of Lord Byron’s works.” Perhaps she should have done. “The Corsair, of course, but nothing else. I have, however, heard of harems, and wondered what the women did with all their time.”

  Clara blinked. “You wondered what they did, my lady?” She sounded scandalized. “You were married once. I’d think you’d know what they did.”

  “I don’t mean that. Of course, I know what they did with the Pasha.” Or Georgie suspected she did. “But that would only be one at a time, unless he was a truly depraved man. And he wouldn’t likely be with his . . . wives all of the time every day.” Georgie shrugged. “So I wondered what they did all the rest of the time. I don’t think they are allowed to go out, so no shopping, or visiting, or going for ices. And I daresay they have their own servants, so they wouldn’t cook or clean. They would be waited on, I suspect.” She frowned, still perplexed by the question. “So I do wonder what they do.”

  Clara’s face had gone from white and stretched to red and puckered. “Well, if my guess is correct, you may have cause to find out, my lady. And soon.”

  “If my plan works, neither of us will ever know.” Georgie peered out the window. The carriage had slowed a bit, but was still moving forward. Another few minutes and more houses had appeared along the road.

  “Be ready and follow my lead.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Tensed, Clara glanced from window to window, clutching the edge of the leather seat.

  “Lulu.” The little dog woke with a yip and jumped to the floor, tail waving like a battle flag. “Get ready. I’ll let you know when to bite them.” Georgie turned her attention to the street outside. They were closer to the town’s center to judge by the traffic and the busy nature of the street. Closer to the water too, from the all-but-overpowering smell of fish.

  At last the carriage rocked to a halt.

  * * *

  Walter Endicott, Lord Travers, glanced at his pocket watch for what must have been the fortieth time that day. Had blasted time stopped altogether? The hands read a quarter past two o’clock, just five minutes since the last time he’d looked. The watch must be running slow. Perhaps he’d forgotten to wind it. He grasped the stem between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a vicious twist, although winding it now would do no good if the time was already wrong.

  His grip was so tight the stem popped off and went flying across the table, skittering between his glass and the bottle of brandy he’d ordered at noon, and rolled off the edge and out of sight. Disgusted, Travers slammed the watch onto the table. Worthless piece of metal. He grabbed his glass again. Nothing had gone right with this venture, but he’d be damned if he’d give up yet. He trusted his men. They’d be here soon. With Lady Georgina.

  Abandoning the broken watch, Travers raised his glass and downed the two fingers worth of spirits left in it. He shouldn’t drink any more at present. His fuzzy head and blurry sight told him he was dangerously close to passing out, and he wanted to be quite clearheaded when his men arrived with his future wife. Lady Georgina. Despite his prodigious consumption of brandy, his shaft hardened at the mere thought of her name. After five long years of lust and longing, she was almost his.

  He still didn’t know what it was about the red-haired little wench that had captivated him for so long, but he had craved the sight of her ever since he’d first been introduced to her, the year after she’d come out. He’d tried to initiate a marriage arrangement with the Marquess of Blackham immediately after that initial meeting, but the man had quashed his suit, citing other arrangements he was making with the eldest son of the Duke of Carford.

  For once, Travers had been prudent and bided his time, and, when those negotiations had fallen through, he’d quietly renewed his suit. And that time, for whatever reason, Blackham had agreed. Travers had walked around his London townhouse in a perpetual state of arousal for weeks, thinking about nothing but the sight of Georgina, nude and beneath him on their wedding night. He’d
had to visit his favorite brothel almost daily, so intense had been his lust for the woman. Then, somehow, it had all fallen apart when the lady in question had married a nobody—a vicar’s son—the day after her twenty-first birthday and two weeks before their wedding would have taken place.

  Abruptly, Travers seized the bottle and upended it into his glass. The day he’d learned the news had been the blackest of his life. He’d raged about London, drinking and whoring until time ceased to exist. He’d awakened on the fourth day in a stall behind his townhouse, his clothing stinking of spirits and his own essence, his tongue so thick he could barely swallow, and his head exploding with pain every time he moved an inch.

  His valet had suggested a change of scenery and had removed them to the continent, to Brussels, where Travers had spent the year drinking and whoring, but in moderation. Then, with the Battle of Waterloo looming, he’d sobered quickly and set out for London. In the days after his return, he’d learned of the death of Georgina’s husband and immediately had applied again to Lord Blackham, vowing she’d not slip through his fingers again.

  Which was why he’d sent his men to kidnap her today.

  He glanced at the shattered watch. Why hadn’t they arrived yet?

  “Crawford.” He bellowed, and his valet, a tall, lanky man with nervous hands, appeared at a trot. “Fetch me another bottle, and see if Cole has arrived.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The valet hurried out.

  Travers rose and tottered over to the window, although the trip was totally in vain. When he’d demanded the best rooms in the inn he hadn’t been thinking that meant he’d be lodged at the back of the establishment to spare him the noise of the courtyard. Had he been taken to a front-facing room, he could have seen for himself when Georgina arrived. When he’d finally realized his mistake, the other rooms had already been occupied. Damned nuisance. He peered out the window anyway at the cold, gray Channel. Of course, the back-facing rooms would be to his advantage if the lady put up a struggle. Fewer people to hear her cries, and Travers fully expected she’d not submit to him willingly before the wedding. But he had to ensure that this time there would indeed be a wedding. His entire future depended on it.