by Mary Brendan
‘Shall I take you back to Collins?’
That dreadful threat brought an instant response. Fiona gave a quick shake of the head, terrified that he might be mean enough to do such a thing. She’d fallen into such a deep, troubled slumber that she’d not heard him approach and couldn’t yet force her wits to function properly. But she was alert enough to know she still didn’t trust him. She was conscious, too, of the familiar scent of his riding coat and the long muscled body imprisoning hers. Her lips parted as though she’d say something, but the words jumbled into chaos in her mind.
‘Do you want my help to carry on to Dartmouth so you might take up your employment?’
Fiona blinked, wondering why he would offer to do that. It was certainly the better of the two options so she nodded slowly, humouring him. By the filtering moonlight she saw his eyes drop to her parted mouth and quickly pressed together her lips, looking away.
‘Well, Miss Chapman,’ Luke said huskily, ‘let us go then before Collins’s men turn up. I’ve an inkling they might and they’ve nothing good in store for either of us.’
Fiona allowed him to take her elbow and haul her to her feet. He released her and went to the horse tethered to a branch. She darted a scouting glance about, teetering on her toes and unwittingly betraying her intention.
‘Please don’t,’ Luke said, barely sending her a glance. ‘I’ll catch you and tie you up because you’re becoming tiresome...’
‘I’m becoming tiresome!’ Fiona echoed in an outraged whisper, abruptly finding her voice. The muzz in her head had cleared and she marched towards him, but he continued seeing to the horse rather than paying attention to her. ‘I’ve been abducted, gagged and bound, fed disgusting scraps and threatened with...with vile abuse...’
‘You can’t blame me for any of that,’ Luke drawled.
‘If my memory serves, I think I can, sir!’ Fiona fumed, incensed by his nonchalance.
He turned and looked at her through the patchy, silvery light. ‘You’re questioning my seductive skills?’
Fiona moistened her lips. She sensed...hoped...he was being humorous, but was in no mood for levity. ‘I’m questioning everything about you, Mr Wolfson,’ she retorted hoarsely.
‘And with good cause, but I’ve no time to explain any of it right now. I didn’t have to come and get you, you know. I’ve business to see to and could have let the authorities take on the job of searching for you.’
‘Why didn’t you, then?’ Fiona demanded, hoping to corner him into admitting his guilt and association with the gang.
‘I had an idea where they’d taken you and that things might turn extremely unpleasant for you, my dear. The dragoons have been after Collins for more than a year—still he’s at large because they’ve failed to catch up with him. By the time they found you, you’d have been dead...or wishing you were...’ Luke gazed at her. ‘Collins wanted a profit from snatching you, even after he’d accepted it was a case of mistaken identity. He’d not have harmed you until he’d approached your family for a ransom and been unsuccessful. I’m guessing that as you’re seeking employment, your parents are not financially well off.’
‘How astute of you,’ Fiona breathed, then felt foolish for resorting to sarcasm. He’d only pointed out a glaring truth. ‘And why would you feel responsible for rescuing me, Mr Wolfson?’
‘I’m damned if I know,’ Luke muttered.
‘And how is it that you knew where to find me?’
‘That’s one of the questions I’ve no time to answer right now.’
‘But I’d like an answer, please. As you’ve correctly guessed, there’s no reward on my head. If you think because you seem a well-bred ruffian you stand a better chance than Collins of prising cash from my stepfather, I can assure you, you won’t. I’m no use to you, you know,’ Fiona taunted.
‘I wouldn’t say that...’ Luke returned softly, a dangerous glint in his eyes letting her know she insulted him again at her peril.
For a moment Fiona felt unable to avoid his black diamond gaze. She knew what use he’d hinted at and was glad that the dusk hid the blush warming her cheeks. Suddenly she sensed how very alone and lost she was. Canopies of branches overhead swayed, giving tantalising glimpses of the open sky, but all around thickets hemmed her in. She was completely at this stranger’s mercy.
‘You’re a boost to my eternal salvation, my dear,’ Luke muttered on a short laugh that shattered the tension between them.
Fiona was not fooled by his self-mockery or the intention behind it; he’d let her know that he’d sooner keep her docile, but if she challenged him he also held the power and the means of retaliation, should he choose to exercise those.
Abruptly he lifted her on to the mare, not with swift mastery as he had before but with a touch more gallantry. ‘Now...as I hold all the cards, don’t argue, just do as I say and all will be well,’ he growled. ‘If you want something to occupy that busy tongue of yours you might pray to the Almighty that the gang are too busy collecting kegs on Dawlish Beach to come after us.’
‘I’m back at Dawlish?’ Fiona forgot in her despair to leap off the other side of the horse. She’d lost two whole days’ travelling if she were now again at that staging post.
‘You were taken some distance...’ Luke mounted in a lithe movement, then turned the horse’s head and they picked a path through the shadowy forest towards the road. Just a clop of hooves and chirruping night-time noises broke the eerie silence until a fox shrieked close by, making Fiona almost jump from her skin. Again she felt that small movement against her ribs as his thumb brushed slowly to and fro in reassurance. She felt in such a state of confusion that she had difficulty making sense of her predicament or deciding how to act. Trying to escape again, so soon after the last failed attempt, seemed idiotic. Memories of the home she had left behind collided with thoughts of the uncertain life she was going to. The fate of those she’d travelled with, and her own safety, were also vying for her concentration. Yet...her greatest concern was about her captor. She wanted to believe him honest and sincere, with her best interests at heart, despite everything indicating that the opposite were true. Nothing made sense, and the more Fiona picked at the different strands of information in her mind, the more her hopes that Luke Wolfson was a decent fellow unravelled.
She had quit her home in London because her life had become unbearable. Now she felt she had jumped straight from the frying pan into the fire. Yet, regret was absent; she didn’t trust Luke Wolfson and he frightened her, but, oddly, the idea that she might never have met him seemed worse.
* * *
Maude Ratcliff bitterly regretted marrying for the second time. She had dearly loved her first husband and missed him more every day now that she had a spouse she feared and despised.
Had Anthony not succumbed to a heart attack she’d still have a comfortable life and her eldest daughter living with her. Now Maude felt quite alone in the world. Losing Fiona’s company was a torment. And it was all her own fault for being a stupid woman flattered by a younger man’s lies.
Verity, Maude’s second child, had been married for several years and had two delightful babies and another on the way. Writing to Langdon Place in Shropshire and worrying her daughter and son-in-law was not an option for consideration as far as Maude was concerned. She would have to try and solve the crisis alone. And, of course, she could only do that if she had some cash of her own to back her plans to abscond from the man making her life a misery.
With a glance over a shoulder Maude took out her jewellery box from where she’d hidden it in a blanket ottoman. She knew that Cecil had gone out, yet sometimes he returned quietly and she was constantly alert to him creeping up behind her to spy on her. Lifting the lid of the casket, she sifted through the pieces for something to sell. Her husband had already taken to the pawnbroker all the fine gemstones. But he’d overlooked
these insignificant items and thereafter Maude had kept them out of sight. She was hoping he’d forgotten about them, but doubted he had. Despite their great sentimental value, she’d sooner part with the trinkets and have the cash herself than let him appropriate the proceeds of the gold and silver her beloved Anthony had lavished on her. She fingered a small locket, the best piece, wondering if its value would provide enough gambling chips to give her a chance of winning a hundred pounds or so with which she might disappear.
When Anthony had been alive they’d often played piquet and he had praised her skill in the game. The locket was gold, studded with turquoise chips, and had been an anniversary gift when she was a woman of about Fiona’s age. But by her mid-twenties, Maude had two daughters, although she’d never borne more children. It was a great sadness to her that Anthony had never had the son he’d wanted.
If she had had a boy all would be well, she told herself. She would be able to confide in her son and he would protect her from the avaricious monster who’d sneaked into her life by deception.
Attuned to every sound, Maude hastily dropped the locket and closed the lid of the box, shoving it out of sight. She must assume the role of devoted wife even if in reality she’d sooner stick a knife in Cecil’s back. Maude knew the only way she’d ever get free of him was to play him at his own fraudulent game.
‘Ah, there you are, my dear...’
Cecil Ratcliff was a fellow of thirty-five, so in his prime, and a decade younger than Maude. He had an average height and build and regular features although his brown hair was already thinning. He was nothing out of the ordinary. But he thought he was, and by some peculiar quirk he’d managed to persuade several women he was, too. Then, when he’d got them hooked and within his power, they discovered he was nothing but a selfish parasite.
At the moment he was posed against the door frame, gazing at his wife with mild blue eyes. ‘Should you not be downstairs arranging dinner, Maude?’
‘Rose knows what to cook. I spoke to her earlier.’ Maude got up from the dressing table, and to conceal the quiver in her hands she clasped them behind her back. She hated herself for feeling too intimidated to order him away from her. Her daughter was gone now and couldn’t be harmed, but Maude knew the man she’d married still had her to punish. ‘We have some mutton left...and a caper sauce to go with it...’
Cecil tutted, coming further into the room. ‘You know I have no liking for such scraps. A joint of beef and perhaps a duck is always more to my taste.’ He took one of Maude’s cheeks in thumb and forefinger and pinched in a way that seemed playful. ‘You’d prefer that, too, wouldn’t you, dear?’
‘The butcher’s bill must be paid before he’ll deliver...’ Maude began, her hands gripping tighter behind her back as she eased her face from between his bony fingers.
‘Bumptious fellow.’ Cecil flicked the small pearl ear-clips she wore, then, raising both hands, tugged them together from her lobes. ‘Very well, if the upstart wants something, we’ll give him these and have a fine feast on the proceeds.’ Pocketing the jewellery, he sauntered from the room.
Maude watched him, her eyes brimming with tears and loathing. She knew very well that her earrings would buy her husband a night of carousing, not a dinner for them both. But the loss of her possessions she could tolerate. The loss of Fiona was harder to endure. And how her daughter must hate her for bringing such as Cecil Ratcliff into their lives.
* * *
‘I like Mr Wolfson and I really think we should persuade him to come back and help us, Papa.’
‘I shall determine what to do!’ The Duke of Thornley shot his daughter a stern look over the top of his newspaper, but he never remained cross with her for long.
After his wife had died he had gained great comfort from his eldest child’s companionship. Joan had only just made her debut at sixteen and a half when her mother expired after a long illness. The duke had wanted Joan to make her come out when older but his beloved wife had desired seeing Joan launched into society, so he had relented. They both knew the time left to them, as a family, was short. Then on the twelfth of August that year—the Glorious Twelfth—with dreadful irony, the duchess had been buried quietly, as had been her wish, in the small graveyard surrounding the chapel on the Thornley estate.
So Joan had been propelled into adulthood before Alfred Thornley would have liked. But the girl had always been mature for her age, although she had an adventurous side better suited to her having been born a boy.
The duke yearned it might have been so. His wife had left him with a son and heir, but at seven years old the boy was too young to be of interest to him and was mostly away at school. Thornley sighed; Joan was right: if he were to do what he saw as his paternalistic duty as largest and wealthiest landowner in Devon, and rid the county of the Collins gang, he’d need assistance from the likes of Wolfson. But the mercenary was no longer at the King and Tinker. His Grace had sent a servant to the inn and the message from the landlord, relayed back to him, had been that Luke Wolfson had travelled west towards Lowerton. But the major had left his doxy still ensconced there, reassuring Thornley that the fellow would return to collect her before heading to London. When Wolfson did show up the duke knew he’d have to eat humble pie if he were to gain the man’s attention. The major had always been impeccably polite, but Alfred sensed he didn’t suffer fools gladly. He knew he’d been idiotic, allowing pride to make him deaf to the mercenary’s advice.
‘We cannot keep up the pretence of planning a wedding with a fictitious groom for ever, Papa.’ Joan had been buttering her breakfast toast while pointing out a salient point. ‘We must strike soon or the opportunity to tempt the reprobate into the open will be lost. The longer it drags on the more likely it will be that Collins might spot the ruse.’ She sipped her tea, gazing fixedly at her father to hurry his response. When none came she continued, ‘Mr Wolfson might still be lodging at the inn. We should send one of the boys to give him an invitation to dine this evening.’
‘He’s gone off to his friend’s hunting lodge at Lowerton and from there is heading back to the city. The landlord has sent word of it. I doubt Wolfson will be back.’ His Grace thought it best not to mention to his dear child that the fellow would pass through again...just to collect his concubine.
‘Well, we could send word to the hunting lodge; Lowerton is not so far—’
‘We will not!’ the duke interrupted tetchily before adding in a conciliatory tone, ‘I’ve told you that I have arranged to dine with Squire Smalley this evening.’
‘Oh...I forgot...’ Joan said meekly; her father had indeed informed her earlier in the week that he was visiting the widower. She always received an invitation too, but found an excuse to stay at home. She had no wish to listen to two fellows reminiscing about their late wives, while drinking themselves silly. Joan brightened. ‘Lowerton is a sleepy village; there cannot be more than one hunting lodge in the vicinity...’
‘Mmmm...’ His Grace mumbled, looking up as the butler entered with the post on a silver tray.
Alfred glanced at the parchments, tutting as he recognised the heavy black script of a fellow magistrate on one of them. There was no need to open the missive to know its content. It would again be complaints about the smugglers stirring unrest among commonly law-abiding folk. Thornley knew he was likely to hear similar concerns from his friend Smalley when they dined later on. Folding his newspaper, he pushed away his untasted plate of kedgeree, feeling irritated.
Again he admitted to himself—if not to her—that his daughter had spoken sense when mentioning the matter ought be attended to before it was too late. Having intentionally leaked the news that he’d set up a match between Joan and a non-existent rich friend, due to return from overseas, it seemed daft not to proceed quickly. The duke had been criticised behind his back for forcing Joan to wed a middle-aged man against her will. But generating juicy gossip
that might reach the ears of the gang had been the intention from the outset. To outsiders, father and daughter were at loggerheads because the girl had settled on marrying a secret lover. In order to preserve the scheme’s authenticity most of the servants also believed it to be true; just the housekeeper and butler and a few close friends—sworn to secrecy—knew the truth. So deceit had crept into Thornley Heights and His Grace didn’t like that one bit. But his daughter—proving her daredevil nature—had been all for the scheme from the start. She still was, hence her constant badgering to get Wolfson to put it into action.
Thornley picked up his post from the tablecloth, pushing back his chair. ‘I must attend to business, my dear.’
Joan watched her father depart without mentioning Wolfson’s name again. From experience she knew that her father was best left to stew on matters if he were not to become extremely stubborn. But time was not on their side.
Having finished her breakfast, Joan returned to her chamber and gazed out across verdant parkland while her mind bubbled with activity. Her father wouldn’t hear of her getting personally involved in the plot. If any harm were to befall her it would be the end of his sanity, he’d declared. So, after a sulk, Joan had agreed to a stand-in. She wondered who Wolfson had chosen to play her part in the drama. Was the young woman the same age and dark-haired, like her? Her impostor must be a brave soul to undertake the grave risk. When local gentry visited her father Joan had overheard them all discussing the increasing savagery of the gang. The evil reprobates took their work very seriously and would kill or maim to get, and keep, their riches. Recently there had been a report that the smugglers had turned on some of their own: two known criminals had been found with slit throats, no doubt executed for a betrayal.
