by Merry Farmer
She twisted to look up at the unrecognized man, and her heart sank. Pale blond hair, angular face, icy blue eyes. She would know Lord Shayles anywhere.
“As you see,” he said with a thin smile. “I will not run from the room in terror simply because you recognize me. My reputation is the least of my worries as, unlike our timid friend, I do not rely on votes to secure my position in the world.”
Marigold started to ask what he wanted from her, but all that came out was a muffled sound.
Lord Shayles laughed. “You had no need to get involved in all this, you know. We would have kept Croydon’s little bastard safe while he undid the damage his little ploy caused.”
Once again, Marigold made a noise that was unrecognizable as the vow to defeat them that it was intended to be.
Lord Shayles raised one pale eyebrow. “Is that so?” he mocked her as though he’d understood her threat. “Well, next time you see your beloved husband, if you ever see him again, which is up for debate at the moment, you must give him my compliments for marrying such a feisty woman.” He sighed. “Turpin is right. You would have made a lovely addition to my menagerie.”
Marigold’s eyes widened.
A sly grin spread across Lord Shayles’s face. “You had guessed that was Turpin earlier, hadn’t you, my dear?” He played with her as though her shock were for the revelation of Turpin and not the mention of the horrible things that went on in his house. “It’s not important.”
He stood from his crouch and brushed his hands as though wiping away filth.
“We have to move you now, and I’m afraid your accommodations won’t be nearly as nice as this.” He gestured around to the simple room. “Of course, it’ll be risky to move you in daylight,” he went on. “But who would suspect we’d be daring enough to move such precious cargo without the cover of darkness? You must promise me you’ll be very quiet indeed.”
Marigold let out a muffled shout, sounding far braver than she felt.
“Oh?” Lord Shayles arched a brow as if he understood her. “You’re a very naughty girl who was never taught to keep quiet and do as she was told?” He broke into a smile that sent chills down her back. “I have a staff full of men who are extremely proficient in the art of training women to do as they’re told. Guards?” He twisted to the door.
Panic sharper than anything Marigold had ever known shot through her, bringing her near to hysterics. The two men who had attacked her earlier stepped immediately into the room. The leaner of the two wiped a hand over his mouth, staring at Marigold with hungry eyes. “I can train her up good, sir,” he said as though he’d been standing within earshot the whole time. He reached for his crotch as he stalked closer to her.
“Not yet,” Lord Shayles said, checking the gold pocket watch tucked in his waistcoat. “Only if she turns difficult. And even then,” he sent a threatening look to the lean man, “only if I give you permission.”
“Y-yes, sir.” The lean man stepped back. Seeing the man who terrified her cowed did nothing to lessen Marigold’s panic. In fact, it made her fear of Lord Shayles soar.
Lord Shayles let out a pleased sigh and tucked his watch back into his waistcoat. “Well, my dear, it’s about time.” He turned to the men. “In ten minutes, take them downstairs. The wagon should be prepared by then. I need to make sure that Turpin knows his part before the curtain goes up.”
“Yes, sir,” the two guards answered in unison.
Lord Shayles marched out of the room as though he were on his way to a garden party. Marigold’s guards stood dumbly where they were, the lean one scratching his head and staring at her as though debating whether punishment from Lord Shayles would be worth enduring if he interfered with her.
“Don’t,” the rough one warned him when he appeared to make up his mind and took a step in Marigold’s direction, loosening his trousers as he did. “You’ll regret it.”
The lean man sniffed, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and grumbled something Marigold couldn’t make out.
They waited for ten minutes before the lean one marched to the bed to scoop James roughly into his arms. The rough one stomped over to pick Marigold up and tossed her over his shoulder as though she were a feather.
Marigold’s head spun with the motion. She felt as though she might retch, which would have been horrifying with her gag. All she could do was hold on, force herself to breathe, and keep her eyes on James as much as she could as the guards and Lord Shayles carried her down through the house.
Waiting was torture. It was far worse than the painful throb in Alex’s side as he tried to make his body relax in the cramped carriage. He refused to admit it had been a terrible idea to get out of bed so soon after being shot. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been riddled with bullets. As long as Marigold was in danger, he would ignore any sort of pain of his own to go to her.
Which was why sitting for hours in a carriage fifty yards down the street from the Black Strap Club was driving him mad.
“There has to be something we can do,” he muttered to Katya, who sat on the seat across from him.
Katya’s jaw had been clenched for the better part of the hour, the only outward sign that she was running out of patience, just as Alex was. “Malcolm and Armand will let us know when there’s anything we can do,” she said. “And my operative says Marigold is unconscious but unharmed.”
The last thing Alex wanted was to take the word of the spindle-thin young woman with a faded bruise on the side of her face who had walked past the carriage earlier and thrown a wadded-up note through the window, as if tossing away rubbish, but Katya seemed to trust her.
“Why would any woman voluntarily submit to the things that happen in there just for you?” he said, narrowing his eyes at Katya.
“Not for me.” Katya’s eyes went wide in offence, and she sat straighter. “They do it so they can get others out.”
“Who would do that to themselves?” Alex shook his head, knowing his peevishness came from his impatience and pain.
“Your wife, for one,” Katya continued to scold him. “And any other woman willing to sacrifice herself if it means sparing another even one moment of unnecessary pain. But I suppose men will never understand the bonds of sisterhood that are formed because of the injustices we face every single day of our lives.”
Alex opened his mouth to reply, but all will to fight her fell flat. Instead, he sighed and said, “Why do you think this bill of ours is so important? No woman should have to suffer injustice simply because of her birth.”
Katya’s expression softened, though she didn’t quite smile. She wasn’t given a chance to reply, though. A short knock sounded on the carriage door before Malcolm threw it open.
“They’ve just brought Marigold and James down to the mews and are loading them into a wagon.”
That was all the prompting Alex needed. In spite of the pain that jabbed him from every angle and the stiffness of sitting in the carriage, he hurled himself out of the carriage and rushed down the street a step behind Malcolm. The stitches Armand had sewn in Alex’s side pulled, forcing him to slow down and let Malcolm rush ahead of him.
They crossed the street in front of the Black Strap Club, then hurried on to the mews entrance. Before they could get close, a wagon rattled out into the street. In spite of the pain tearing at him, Alex picked up his pace.
Alex and Malcolm weren’t the only men waiting to take action. Phillips and half a dozen of Malcolm’s men jumped out of the spots where they had been waiting, concealed around the corner, from a second hired cab waiting across the street, pretending to be a fishmonger loitering on the corner. The wagon’s driver shouted in alarm at the ambush.
“Stop where you are,” Malcolm shouted.
The driver yanked the two horses pulling the wagon to a stop, dropped the reins, and reached for something under the seat. Two men standing in the back of the wagon on either side of a canvas-wrapped bundle stood. Each held a gun and instantly started to fire.
The scene was chaos. Several passersby were caught in the conflict and screamed, running away from the fight. Alex dodged one terrified maid, but bumped into a fleeing young man on his way to the wagon. The impact sent blinding pain through him, and he cried out. But there was no time to give in to the blackness that threatened the corners of his vision. Marigold needed him.
He grabbed the side of the wagon as Malcolm dragged the driver to the pavement, punching him square in the face. The two toughs that had stood with their guns had been pulled to the pavement as well, and the canvas-covered bundle writhed as though someone underneath were trying to break free.
“Marigold,” Alex called out, struggling to make it to the back of the wagon. Warm wetness trickled down his side, and he was certain that if he peeled back his jacket and waistcoat, there would be blood. But he pushed on, rounding the wagon. “Marigold!”
“I’ll save her.”
The shout came seemingly out of nowhere, and before Alex could get his bearings, Turpin came flying up to the back of the wagon. Alex was too stunned to do anything but watch as the man who was responsible for so much pain and misery leapt into the back of the carriage and tore away the canvas.
Underneath, Marigold twisted and thrashed to break free of the ropes binding her hands behind her. A thick length of black material gagged her, but the moment she met Alex’s eyes, she cried out what he was sure was his name. Curled up against her chest and stomach was the limp, whimpering form of his son.
“James,” Alex cried out. He attempted to hoist himself into the wagon, grimacing with pain.
“Stay right there, Croydon, you’re wounded,” Turpin said, standing with exaggerated regality, holding out a hand to keep Alex where he was. “I have everything in hand.”
“Turpin, you bastard,” Alex shouted, managing to roll into the back of the wagon, even though his strength was quickly fading. Phillips broke away from the man he’d been fighting to rush to the wagon’s side.
A policeman’s whistle sounded a moment later, and the noise and commotion of the fight stopped suddenly.
“There they are,” another, all-too-familiar voice called out. Shayles. “I told you Turpin wouldn’t let them get away.”
Through his shock of incredulity, Alex crawled toward Marigold and James. “My darling, are you all right?” He pulled the gag out of Marigold’s mouth.
She wailed and struggled to get closer to him. “Alex.” Her voice cracked.
“Thank God you were here to stop these hideous kidnappers, Turpin,” Shayles said, overly loud, as he and a small handful of policemen raced to the wagon. Three other men in suits, two with small notebooks, joined the fray.
“What?” Malcolm shouted as they made the already crowded street corner a jumble of confusion. “Turpin is the kidnapper, and Shayles is his accomplice.”
“How dare you affront me so, Lord Malcolm,” Turpin called down on the scene. Alex glanced up, sickened by the way Turpin stood as though he were Wellington defeating Napoleon. “I saw Mrs. Croydon ambushed by these blackguards and rushed to help her as fast as I could.”
“No,” Alex said, pushing himself to his knees. “You’re behind this, you merciless bastard.”
“Mr. Croydon, is it true that your wife and son were kidnapped from Paddington Station when they arrived this morning to join you in town?” one of the men with a notebook asked.
“No.” Alex gaped at the man.
“Is it true you received threats from the same man who has been blackmailing Mr. Turpin all summer?” the second man demanded.
“Back away, gentlemen,” Turpin interrupted before Alex could deny the story and tell them the real villain was standing right before them. “Mr. Croydon is injured. He was shot in the fray and would have died if I had not protected him.”
“Bollocks,” Malcolm shouted. “He’s the kidnapper. He’s the criminal.”
In spite of Malcolm’s vehemence and the furious look Alex threw at Turpin, the policemen were either too busy gathering up the driver and two toughs or too confused by the conflicting claims to do more than stand there and gape. Malcolm shot looks to some of his men, who fled the scene.
Armand finally left whatever perch he’d been watching the conflict from to rush toward the wagon. “Stand aside, I’m a doctor,” he called.
“Tend to Marigold and James first,” Alex ordered him, but he was already faint from loss of blood and utter bafflement.
“I had gone to Paddington Station myself to meet my wife,” Turpin said, stepping over Alex without a second look and hopping down from the wagon to speak to the three men, who, Alex realized with a sickening lurch, must have been reporters. “I followed them all the way across London before seeking the help of Lord Shayles to apprehend them and rescue Mrs. Croydon.”
“You’re a true hero, Mr. Turpin,” one of the reporters said.
“No, no he isn’t.” Malcolm tried to elbow his way through the reporters to Turpin, bloodied fist raised. “He’s a liar and a criminal.”
One of the stunned policemen seemed to come to his senses and grabbed Malcolm’s arm, holding him back.
Alex didn’t see more of the confrontation before Armand grabbed his shoulders and forced him to lie down in the wagon. “You’ve broken your stitches,” Armand said. “Hold still or you’ll lose too much blood and we’ll be worse off than before.”
“But Turpin,” Alex panted. “The bastard.”
“Probably staged this whole thing,” Armand growled.
“He didn’t,” Marigold gasped, scooting closer to him. She’d freed her hands while Alex watched the horrific scene unfold around them, and gathered James into her arms. “Lord Shayles planned it. He said as much before we were brought down.”
“I’ll kill him,” Alex growled, although it came out as more of a weak pant than anything that would strike fear into Shayles’s heart. “I’ll tear him limb from limb.”
“…which is why the rumors that have plagued me all summer have been so frustrating,” Turpin was in the middle of saying to the reporters. “Women are precious to me. They should be nurtured and protected at all costs, by their husbands, fathers, and brothers. It astounds me that a man like Mr. Croydon, who claims to champion the rights of women in Parliament would, in fact, be so heartless as to let his own wife travel alone with a small child, leaving both of them vulnerable to exactly the sort of horror they befell today. What would have happened if I had not been on hand to stop these vicious kidnappers?”
“Liar!” Alex tried to lift himself so that he could stop the wildly false story from going any further. Only a bastard like Turpin would use kidnapping and attempted murder as a chance to further his political aims. His arms shook, though, and he fell back against the wagon bed.
“We need to get you out of here and to a proper hospital,” Armand said, glaring as though he was ready to throttle both Turpin and Alex.
“We’ll help,” one of the reporters said, looking into the back of the wagon. He flinched and turned white at the sight of Alex’s blood-soaked shirt.
Alex had no choice but to let himself be inched to the back of the wagon, where a pair of men were waiting to receive him.
“I won’t leave you,” Marigold said as Armand helped her to stand, taking James from her to examine him. “I don’t care what that blackguard Turpin says happened here. We have James. We’re safe.”
Alex had never heard words so bittersweet. Hot with fury, he shot a glare at Turpin’s back, but his gaze settled on Shayles, watching the whole scene from the far side. His arms were crossed, and he grinned as though watching an old Punch and Judy show. One he’d written, directed, and pulled the puppet’s strings for. H
e met Alex’s eyes and laughed.
Alex’s hatred for Shayles and Turpin burned an acid hole through his gut. But there was nothing he could do about it, and the hatred paled compared to the joy and relief at having Marigold and James back. “Go home,” he said. “Go home at once and stay there. As long as I know the two of you are safe, I can endure anything.”
“I’ll see that she gets there, sir,” Phillips said, joining the men who were helping everyone down from the wagon.
“No,” Marigold said. “I won’t leave you.” She turned to Phillips. “Take James home if you must. He’s been dosed with laudanum, but he’s starting to come to.” She faced Alex again. “I’m coming with you. I’m never going to leave your side again.”
Chapter 23
“Oh, ma’am, I’ve been so worried!” A frantic Ruby greeted Marigold in the front hall of Croydon House, long after night had fallen.
Marigold was so exhausted, and her nerves so shattered, that she ran into the maid’s arms as though she were a sister and not a member of her staff. “I’ve never been so afraid,” she confessed.
Ruby hugged her tightly, but a moment later, burst into a tearful squeal. She broke away from Marigold and ran to the door, where Mr. Phillips was carrying a sleeping James into the house. “He’s alive,” she wept, pulling James out of Mr. Phillip’s arms and holding him as close as if he were her own. “Thank God, he’s alive.”
James stirred and started to fuss, but as soon as he saw who held him, he flopped his head against Ruby’s shoulder and slept on. Genuine, healing sleep, not the stupor induced by laudanum.
At last, Alex entered the house, supported by Armand on one side and Malcolm on the other, Lady Stanhope trailing them.
“I’m not an invalid, you know,” Alex told his friends with a frown. “I can manage on my own.”
“You are too an invalid,” Lord Malcolm argued with him.
A change had come over the gruff, mysterious man. The tension of doing battle with Turpin and Shayles that had creased his face and made his whole body appear tense as the confrontation unfolded had given way to a defeated looseness at the hospital while Alex and James were being treated. Now it had settled into a weary kind of resolve, marked by a hint of a relieved smile that came from being with friends, safe and more or less sound. Or perhaps Marigold was only ascribing to Lord Malcolm the emotions she herself felt.
