Dying For A Duke

by Emma V. Leech

  Oliver carried her into the building and she closed her eyes again, fighting not to wretch as the smell overpowered her. It reeked of cats and dirt and unwashed man and it was all she could do not to flinch as she was set down on a lumpy surface. The smell of an uncivilized male was stronger here and she guessed this was Oliver’s companion’s bed.

  Oliver made a disgusted noise of contempt as he took in the hovel.

  “Tain’t much perhaps,” his companion said, sounding rather defensive.

  “It’s revolting and beyond comprehension that you should live in such filth,” Oliver said with fury. “Good God man, can’t you even sweep a damn floor. The place is obviously infested. If my fiancée here is attacked by rats during her stay I promise to deduct every injury from your price, believe me.”

  Phoebe felt terror and nausea roil in her belly and forced herself not to react.

  “Well, that’s easy dealt with,” the man said, sounding cheerful and not the least bit affronted. “I’ll go fetch a cat to keep her company.”

  “You do that,” Oliver said, his tone dark.

  Phoebe heard a door open and shut and her pulse sped as she heard Oliver approach the squalid cot she’d been laid upon.

  “Now then, sweet Phoebe,” he said, his voice full of amusement. “You can stop pretending. I know you’re awake.”

  Phoebe opened her eyes as there was obviously no value in continuing the charade.

  “Good girl,” Oliver said with approval, beaming at her. “Now then, the ship doesn’t sail until the morning tide at half past eleven. So I’m afraid you will have an uncomfortable night of it. I’m sorry for it, love. But if you behave like the sensible girl I know you are I’ll make it up to you. And if all goes to plan, by this time next year you should find yourself married to a duke.”

  Phoebe cursed him from behind the gag and struggled against her bindings but Oliver just gave a jovial laugh. “Yes, love, I know. It’s not what you’re used to but it’s not for long. Now I must go and arrange my own lodgings for the night. I don’t expect I’ll see you again until the morning when my rather uncouth companion will bring you to me. But don’t worry, I’ve made it very clear you are not to be harmed in any way. Good night, Phoebe.”

  And with that Oliver left her alone. She heard the sounds of locks being turned and found she was too exhausted to do anything else but slip into a troubled sleep.

  Chapter 28

  There is no greater hell than to be a prisoner of fear - Ben Johnson

  As Benedict rode into the large port of Dover he realised with a sinking heart just what a challenge laid ahead of him. Finding one woman among the morass of humanity before him would be nigh on impossible. The place was seething, teeming with little back streets and dark allies and with cavernous warehouses closer to the docks themselves. Trying to simply search for her would be impossible.

  So he would have to start by finding which ship was sailing for the Americas next and when it would leave. Giving his exhausted horse a pat of encouragement he moved towards the dockyards where he hoped to find someone to send him in the right direction.

  After a fruitless hour being directed from pillar to post he was finally sent to the booking office for the Isabella, due to depart tomorrow morning at eleven thirty.

  It was a tiny office, though neat and clean, the one window shining brightly and a small, efficient looking clerk sitting behind the desk with a large ledger spread before him.

  “Name,” the clerk intoned without looking up.

  “Benedict Rutland, the Marquess of Saltash,” Benedict replied. His shiny new title had the desired effect as the clerk peered up at him with wide eyes and leapt to his feet.

  “Good afternoon, my Lord,” the man said, staring rather myopically through a thick pair of glasses. “May I be of service?”

  “I hope so,” Benedict replied, his tone rather terse by now as his patience was all used up. Phoebe was alone somewhere with a bloody madman and it seemed there was damn all he could do about it. “My fiancée, a Miss Skeffington-Fox has been kidnapped and a man posing as my cousin Lord Oliver Bradshaw is booked upon the Isabella. He is, in fact a common criminal and highly dangerous, I believe armed. He is going to try to take her aboard against her will and remove her to America.”

  “Good God,” the man exclaimed, pushing his spectacles further up his narrow nose. “I ... I ...”

  “You’ll be wanting to speak to the captain of the vessel I imagine to appraise him of the facts,” Benedict replied for him, not in the mood to dealing with stammering incompetence. The clerk nodded with vigour and went to leave the room. “You should also be informed that there are Bow street runners coming this way with the intention of apprehending this man. You will also request that the captain immediately provide me with a list of names - and addresses where possible, of all of his crew, down to the lowliest cabin boy. The man won’t get Miss Skeffington-Fox aboard willingly. She’ll scream blue murder to be frank so there must be someone among the crew who has been paid to help him. I want that man.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” the man replied looking rather dazed, before running from the room.

  Benedict sat in the tiny office and put his head in his hands. His skull still throbbed like fury and a breakneck ride that had pushed both him and his horse to the limits had not helped. He was tired and dirty, and terrified. His only hope was that Oliver had some affection for Phoebe somewhere in his twisted mind and really did intend that they should marry, as absurd as that was. He could only pray that Phoebe was sensible enough to play along until such time as they could hope to rescue her.

  He wondered how far behind him Formby was, if indeed he had managed to persuade them that Oliver was the real culprit. For if not they could well be breathing down his neck any minute now. He prayed at least that his assertion that Oliver was not in fact Lord Bradford but an imposter might slow things down as he would be forced to prove his identity.

  He knew well enough, however, that if he was cornered, Phoebe’s life was in grave danger. If she didn’t live, there was plenty of evidence to imply that Benedict was the murderer, not Oliver if a few salient facts were swept under carpets and ignored. If Oliver was to be believed the man in charge of this investigation would only be too happy to listen to his side of the story so Ben needed proof. Though in truth, if Phoebe didn’t make it through this dreadful ordeal they could march him to the scaffold with his blessing, he wouldn’t give a damn.

  ***

  Phoebe woke to darkness and the sound of bolts sliding. With a jolt her heart leapt with fear as she was plunged back into the reality of her situation. She had to keep calm, though her pulse was speeding and she felt sick. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast time and combined with her lack of strength after her illness she felt light-headed and quite ill-equipped to deal with such drama. But there was little choice and she was determined that Oliver should not win this game. Sheer pig-headedness had saved her skin before now during the war and if Napoleon hadn’t done for her she was damned if some mad Englishman would manage the job.

  The door creaked open, bringing with it a blast of fresh air into the mouldering stench of her prison. Lamp light illuminated the outline of Oliver’s companion and she pushed back a wave of terror at the idea of being alone and bound and at the man’s mercy. Oliver had assured her she would not be harmed, yet at least. She had to pray he was paying the man enough to make that true.

  “Evening, Miss,” the man said, sounding rather awkward as well he might. She wondered what the etiquette was for greeting a woman who’d been abducted and bound. “I’ve brought you a bite to eat,” he said, waving a small parcel at her.

  Phoebe raised one eloquent eyebrow. Seeing as she was bound and gagged, eating presented something of a challenge.

  “Alright, I’ll take the gag out, but you scream and it’ll be the back of my hand you’ll be feelin’. Do you understand me?”

  Phoebe nodded her agreement and held herself very still while the man mov
ed closer and fumbled with the binding around her mouth.

  “There now,” he said, as though he’d done her some great service. “Better ain’t it?”

  “Much,” Phoebe said, deciding that she must try to befriend this great oaf. Maybe if she could get him on side he’d help her. “Thank you, Sir.”

  She looked up at him with big eyes and as innocent an expression as she could muster. His face was obscured by darkness but he rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture telling of discomfort.

  “What time is it?” she asked, trying to gauge how long she’d been there.

  “Bout half nine,” he replied, his voice low and his presence a big looming shape in the darkness.

  “Please, may I have something to drink,” she whispered, keeping her voice meek and frightened, which was rather easier than she might have hoped.

  The man said nothing but reached for his inside pocket and a small silver flask. For a moment Phoebe considered demurring and implying she would never touch strong liquor, but the idea of a nip of brandy to give her courage was too great and she allowed him to put the flask to her lips. As it was the liquor was raw and fierce, nothing like the quality she was used to and she coughed and spluttered, gasping for breath as it burned its way down her throat.

  The fellow chuckled, shaking his head. “Tain’t water, Miss. Suppose I should ha’ thought of that. I’ll bring you some presently.”

  “Thank you,” she gasped as the liquor pooled into a little puddle of warmth in her stomach. “Did you say there was food,” she asked, looking up at him again. She needed to try and get back some of her strength if she was to survive this ordeal. “I’m most terribly hungry. Oliver hasn’t given me anything at all, I’m so famished I think I may swoon.”

  This had the desired effect as the fellow looked horrified by the notion and went to rickety table he’d set the lamp on to retrieve the parcel he’d brought. She could see him a little better in the lamplight. He was a fairly large man, more broad than tall with thick dark hair and a beard that matched.

  “Just some bread and cheese but it’ll fill a hole. Guess it won’t be what you’re used to but you’ll have to make do.”

  “Bread and cheese would be wonderful, thank you.”

  The man grunted as he undid the parcel and she wondered if her efforts were being cast upon stony ground.

  “You didn’t bring a cat then?” she asked, trying to keep her tone conversational. He turned, eyeing her with a frown and then shrugged.

  “Couldn’t catch one,” he replied with a snort, adding only, “Rats won’t bite you, I ain’t never been bit. Keep still and don’t wriggle, they’ll not bother you none, they just scurry around is all.” With this reassuring advice he brought the parcel over to her and then paused as he realised she would be unable to eat unless he fed her or untied her bindings.

  “I think it’s unlikely I could overpower a big man like you,” Phoebe said with a wry smile. This was greeted with a grunt of assent and she held her hands out so that he could untie the ropes.

  She made a great show of rubbing her slender wrists - which were indeed bruised and sore, and weeping a little in the hopes of moving him to pity.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “Oliver has treated me so roughly and ... and it’s not at all what I’m used to.”

  A snort of amusement followed. “I don’t doubt it.”

  “He seemed like such a nice young man too,” she added with a forlorn sigh. “I was never more deceived in anyone.”

  “That’s men for ye,” the fellow said, to her surprise shaking his head and handing her a rough hunk of bread and a thick slice of cheese. She looked up at him with curiosity as she took a bite of bread and chewed, grateful for anything to fill the clawing hunger in her belly.

  “Yes,” she said after she’d swallowed the first bite. “I believed he loved me too, but it seems he just wants my money.” She forced herself not to look at him and bit into the cheese which was tart and creamy at the same time and so good she almost sighed. “Papa is very wealthy,” she added as an afterthought. “Though not as wealthy as my fiancé of course.” She gave a heavy sigh. “He’ll be a duke any day now you know. The old duke is on his last legs. “She affected another sigh. “I should have liked to have been a duchess.” She didn’t wait to see what effect this information was having but shook her head in a defeated manner. “Still, I suppose I shall have to get used to being penniless now.”

  “Penniless?” the man retorted with a snort. “The young lord didn’t look like he was short o’ a bob or two.”

  “Oh all to pieces,” Phoebe replied, shaking her head as the man grew still. “That’s why he’s running for America, and why papa wouldn’t let me marry him. I would have, you see. I’d have even given up the duke for him but papa said he was only a step away from the Marshalsea prison. There’s runners after him,” she added with a sudden burst of inspiration.

  “Is there now?” the man said, his voice dark and unhappy.

  “Oh yes,” Phoebe confirmed before taking another bite of bread. She chewed for a little, allowing the man to digest everything she’d said. “But of course he won’t get a penny now, neither of us will,” she said, sniffing and sounding heartbroken. “Papa will abandon me to my fate and I’ll not get a penny of his money. Papa always liked my sisters better than me. So now I’m worthless if I’m not to marry a duke and ... and Oliver never loved me at all, only ... only my money.” Phoebe gave an agonised sob and hid her face in her hands. “And once he realises there will be no money ... oh ... oh ...” she wailed, growing ever more hysterical.

  “‘Ere, stop that caterwauling,” the man said, his voice terse. “This is a pretty kettle o’ fish an’ no mistake.”

  “Oh dear.” Phoebe looked up at him, her eyes wide and round with pity. “You don’t mean to say he hasn’t paid you yet?”

  “A little bit, but nought like I been promised,” the man groused. “An’ I had expenses,” he added with growing indignation. “That rope don’t come cheap you know, nor he didn’t give me nought for your supper.”

  Phoebe bit back the angry retort that flew to her lips and took another bite of cheese instead, chewing with quiet fury. “Well, that’s just like Oliver, I’m afraid,” she said. “Leaves debts wherever he goes. Not like dear Benedict.”

  “Benedict?” the man demanded, his eyes lighting up. “Who’s he then?”

  “Oh, that's the Marquess of Saltash, my fiancé, he’ll be the Duke of Denholm shortly.”

  “Denholm, eh?” the man mused, and she could hear the scratching of his fingers rasping against his stubbly chin. “Fond of you is he?”

  “Oh the darling man,” Phoebe cried, giving a theatrical sob. “He’s so in love with me. I imagine he’ll hunt Oliver down for this, no expense spared,” she added. “He’ll be devastated, the poor lamb.”

  She said nothing more, judging that the seeds of doubt and discontent had found fertile enough ground as her captor began to pace. Instead she applied herself to the bread and cheese and found herself a little more hopeful than she had been.

  “Reckon he’d be glad to get you back, this duke of yourn?” the man demanded at length as Phoebe brushed the bread crumbs from her skirts.

  “Glad!” she exclaimed in astonishment. “Goodness, he’d likely pay a king’s ransom for me,” she said, praying Benedict would forgive her if this plan went awry.

  “Aye,” the fellow said, his voice dark. “I reckon he may at that.”

  “But you’d have to take care to get to him before morning. If Oliver found out ...” She shuddered and trailed off.

  Sitting back on the rancid bunk she wrapped her arms about herself. The filthy shack was chilly though it was a warm night. Her shawl had been lost somewhere and the little puff sleeves of her muslin gown were not made for warmth.

  “Where do you reckon I might find this duke then?” the man demanded, his eyes glinting with avarice in the darkness.

  �
��Well,” Phoebe said, applying her mind to the problem as Ben must have done himself. “He’s not duke just yet you understand, or at least he may be,” she added, praying Sylvester was in good health and would forgive her. “But anyway he won’t have any idea of where Oliver has hidden me of course, so I imagine he’ll have to track down the boat first. He knows Oliver was intending to go to America,” she said, thinking out loud now. “So I’m certain Dover will be the first place he will look. So he’ll be searching out the next boat due to leave, so I imagine if you were to go to the booking office and ask for the Marquess of Saltash ...”

  Chapter 29

  What is our life? A play of passion,

  Our mirth the music of division,

  Our mother’s wombs the tiring-houses be,

  Where we are dressed for this short comedy.

  Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,

  That sits and marks still who doth act amiss.

  Our graves that hide us from the setting sun

  Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.

  Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest,

  Only we die in earnest, that’s no jest. - Raleigh

  Benedict paced the confines of the gaol cell with impotent fury whilst he awaited the dubious pleasure of meeting Formby’s superior officer.

  Mr Gillerthwaite, the constable in charge of this case, had issued a warrant for Benedict’s immediate arrest, and neither Formby’s admonitions, Benedict’s ranting nor the threat of the present duke’s fury would sway him.

  So despite Formby’s dire predictions that they were committing a grave error the two runners had hauled him off to gaol where he now awaited interview with Gillerthwaite. He’d been there the whole damned night, wasting precious time when he could be looking for Phoebe. Benedict wondered if they were thinking of restraining him for the event, because if they didn’t he was going to wring the blasted man’s neck with his bare hands.

  His only hope now rested in Formby. The man had promised to stake out the booking office and to take Oliver down the moment he saw him.