Benedict looked up as the rattle of keys was heard and the local officer of the law came towards his cell.
“Mr Gillerthwaite will see you now, my Lord,” he said, opening up the cell.
“Oh will he?” Benedict snapped, storming through the opening. “How very gracious of him.”
He followed in the man’s wake until he was led back upstairs and into a dingy office. It was perhaps a little after eight am and a lamp was still burning, shedding a feeble light as the morning crept with more hope than expectation behind the filthy glass of the tiny window panes.
Gillerthwaite was a tall, sparse man with thick white hair and a vast opinion of his own consequence.
“God, is this the best Dover has to offer,” the man said in disgust, looking around the shabby room. “You,” he said, pointing to one of the men who had arrested Benedict. “Get me some coffee at once.”
Benedict didn’t notice the loathing in the man’s eyes as he left the room, and no wonder. If Gillerthwaite couldn’t be bothered to learn his own men’s names, he was unlikely to breed loyalty.
“Well, my Lord,” he said, looking Benedict over with contempt. “We have run you to ground at last. After weeks of incompetence by that fool Formby.”
“The only fool here is you, Sir,” Benedict said, stepping forward. Gillerthwaite may be a tall man but he was thin and the wrong side of fifty and Ben had no compunction about using his own bulk to intimidate the man. “Formby knows damn well Lord Bradshaw is the villain here, as he is the one who has abducted Miss Skeffington-Fox!”
“Ah, well you would say that, though wouldn’t you, Sir,” he replied with a thin smile. “I don’t doubt we’ll turn up the poor young lady’s body sooner or later, once we discover what you’ve done with her.”
“What I’ve done with her!” Benedict raged, lunging for the man and finding himself held back as three men threw themselves at him. “You blithering idiot! If she dies you’d better hope you get me to the gallows fast for I’ll kill you the first chance I get!”
“Yes, well it is certainly clear you are a violent man,” Gillerthwaite said, looking rather shaken as one of the men handcuffed him to the chair. “Just as Lord Bradshaw said you would be.”
“You have no idea,” Benedict replied, his voice dark. He was damned now either way but he had to make the man see that Phoebe was still out there. “I tell you now, you cretinous imbecile, if you don’t make this charge stick, anything that Oliver has offered you will be as nothing compared to the damage which I and my uncle will do to you. And if you believe any lies Oliver has given you that the present duke is about to breathe his last you’re far and wide of the mark. There’s many a good fight left in my uncle and he will destroy you if I don’t live to do it myself.”
He paused for breath as Gillerthwaite blanched a little. “I might remind you that Lord Bradshaw is a long way from the dukedom yet, if that’s what he’s implied is awaiting him. For once I am gone my young brother is next in line, though I doubt the murder of a little boy will weigh on your conscience any will it? For once I’m gone there will be no one left to protect him from the man who is still out there!” he shouted, with such rage that the men who had restrained him stepped forward again, despite the fact he was now chained. “And that man has Miss Skeffington-Fox,” he added, his voice fierce with emotion. “And if anything happens to her ... by God, I’ll make you pay and happily swing for it.”
Before Gillerthwaite could begin to reply there was a frantic knock at the door and Formby burst in.
“Mr Formby!” Gillerthwaite, expostulated in fury. “A little decorum please.”
“No time, Sir,” Formby replied, giving the man a look of contempt. “I’ve just made contact with a man who says he has Miss Skeffington-Fox in his keeping. He wants to make a deal with the marquess here. Says he’ll give him over to him instead of Oliver for a price.”
“Any price, man,” Benedict cried, hope leaping to life as he struggled to get up and the cuffs restrained him.
“I told him you’d bite, lad, don’t fret!” Formby said, his tone soothing. “But we ain’t got long. He’s meeting Bradshaw at half nine so we need to get moving.” He turned to one of his comrades. “Undo his restraints, you bloody imbeciles, how much more proof do you want that his lordship is innocent?”
“These men are not under your command, Formby,” Gillerthwaite raged, slamming his hand down on the desk in fury.
“No, Sir,” Formby said, his tone frank. “Nor they ain’t, but if I have my way they won’t be yours neither, not after this balls up.”
“You’ll have my full support, Formby” Benedict said with loathing, springing to his feet. “I’ve not finished with you,” he added with a snarl of such ferocity to Gillerthwaite that he took a step back. But there was no time for the pleasure of wringing the man’s neck now- all that mattered was getting to Phoebe. “Where is he?” Benedict demanded as he, Formby and the other two runners thundered down the stairs and out into the road.
“We’re to meet him opposite The White Horse and it’ll be quicker on foot,” Formby yelled over his shoulder as he hit the street running and Benedict sprinted after him.
It took them a good five minutes to reach The White Horse and Formby waved him back, making him stand out of sight before they turned the corner. “Fred,” he said, speaking to one of the two runners. “You go round the back, make sure we don’t miss him if he gets spooked, right? Bill, you stay here out a sight an tail us, in case we get in any bother.” The two men nodded and Formby turned to Benedict. “Right, my Lord. I need you to keep your temper in line and hold your nerve. No heroics and no silly buggers, and maybe you, me and your young lady will all come out o’ this smellin’ of roses.”
“Whatever happens, Formby, I shan’t forget this,” Benedict replied, knowing how much the man had risked by not simply following orders.
“Well, I shan’t complain then,” Formby said, grinning at him.
As one they stepped around the corner and Formby nudged him as he gestured towards a furtive looking man, lurking in the mouth of the alley beside the pub.
Benedict felt his emotions spiral out of control at the idea of his lovely Phoebe in the hands of this dirty looking, brute. He was broad and swarthy with a thick dark beard and fists like hams. By God if he’d laid a hand on Phoebe he’d kill him. Taking a breath he put his feelings aside for a moment and did a mental tally of anything of worth he had on him. He had maybe twenty guineas, a fob watch that must be worth at least a thousand and a heavy gold signet ring. He would happily hand them over as a guarantee until he had time to get hold of more funds. He only hoped the man was reasonable enough to understand he couldn’t just lay his hands on a large sum of money with no warning.
“Here you are now, Sir,” Formby said as they approached the man who was looking increasingly wary. “This is the marquess and he’s most anxious to get his young lady back.”
“Is she hurt?” Benedict demanded, his voice harsh and more than relieved to see an affronted look in the man’s eyes.
“No, my Lord. I ain’t never hit a woman and I don’t figure to start now. Though that Bradshaw tied her up too tight, so she’s a bruise or two but none of ‘em was my doin’ an’ she’ll tell you so. She’s been fed and watered too, though ‘e gave me no money for such things.”
“Take me to her,” Benedict demanded, wanting to strangle the man for any bruise whether he’d made it or not.
“Now then, my Lord,” the man replied, his eyes alight with avarice. “She’s worth a pretty penny to you, I reckon.”
Benedict nodded, his desire to kill the man so great he had to clench his fists to stop himself from giving into the desire to do so. “How much?”
“Well,” Formby said before the man could speak. “You think a bit afore you reply, my man. There’s runners all about lookin’ for Bradshaw and the girl, so you won’t headin’ for no bank. What you need is a fast getaway before any’s the wiser or you’ll not get a
chance to spend a farthing afore you’re finding yourself at the end of a short rope an’ a long drop.”
This reasoning seemed to hit home and Benedict sent Formby a look of gratitude as the bearded fellow looked at him, considering. Benedict slipped his grandfather’s gold ring from his hand. “Solid gold,” he said to the fellow as he took off his watch and chain. “This is too,” he added. “And set with diamonds as you can see.”
The lure of gold and diamonds seemed to do the trick. “Right you are then,” he said, sliding the valuables into his pockets. “Follow me.”
***
Phoebe wriggled on the bed, trying to ease the bindings off her wrists to no avail. She prayed that Davy, which was apparently the name of her would-be kidnapper, had managed to track Ben down with no problem and was even now on his way back to her. But she could not rely on that fact and she was only too aware that time was ticking. The boat sailed on the next tide at eleven thirty and it had been daylight for some hours now. Oliver would need time to get her aboard unnoticed, she assumed hidden in some kind of crate or barrel, as she’d certainly not go willingly. So he would likely be coming back for her at any time now.
Davy had obliged her by not tying her up as tightly as Oliver had in deference to her bruised wrists, but sadly he wasn’t fool enough to leave her free. There was a small amount of movement to be gained but not enough to get lose a hand. Phoebe cursed with frustration and wondered how she might manage to get them off. At least her captor was not so very cruel as he might have been and had lit the fire that morning. She had been shivering hard after a whole night in the place and her teeth had chattered so loudly he’d said it was giving him earache. The little hut was well hidden from sunlight in the shadow of the larger buildings beside it and no warmth seemed to creep into its gloomy confines. Now it was no longer cold but the room was stuffy and airless. Looking up at the blue sky visible through the truly filthy glass of the one little windows she had sudden inspiration.
Thankfully Davy had judged that leaving her hands tied in front of her and her mouth gagged was restraint enough. They were certainly nowhere where anyone would come running if they heard a thud or crash and the door was well secured. As it was Phoebe was able to get to her feet and look about for something that she could use. With a muffled exclamation of delight she bent down and grasped the poker that was leaning beside the glowing embers of the little hearth and turned back to the window. The glass shattered with a satisfying crash, as shards showered down on her, but to Phoebe’s relief some pieces remained, stuck in the putty around the sides. Looking back around she used her foot to hook under a chair and drag it closer so that she could reach the window more easily. It took two attempts to stand on the wretched thing with her skirts getting in the way but she managed it and began to saw away at the bindings that held her captive.
It was not as easy as it appeared to be and Phoebe had to force herself not to rush and risk cutting her own wrists. Little by little she worked the thick rope over the broken glass until it was cut clean through and she was free. It took a moment more to remove the gag which was tightly bound and it was with a huge sigh of relief that her aching jaw returned to its usual place. Reaching for the poker once more, Phoebe knocked all of the remaining glass free of the window frame and was about to climb out when she looked back at the fire and decided on one last touch before she left.
Chapter 30
Escape me?
Never—
Beloved!
While I am I, and you are you,
So long as the world contains us both,
Me the loving and you the loth,
While the one eludes, must the other pursue. - Robert Browning.
“Hurry, man, for the love of God!” Benedict shouted at the man who led them towards where his poor lovely girl had been stashed a long and lonely night. “Bradshaw will get there before us if you don’t make haste.
“Alright!” the fellow exclaimed, breaking into a run. “Though we said nine thirty for the meeting and it ain’t nine yet.”
“He won’t be late,” Benedict replied with surety. “So if you want to get clear you’d best move yourself.”
Accordingly the man picked up his pace and they ran the filthy maze of back streets like starving rats as workmen, sailors and washerwomen leapt out of their way. People shouted encouragement or abuse depending on what they believed they were about but soon the people disappeared as they ran into a truly desperate part of town.
Suddenly their guide stopped and pointed towards a tiny ramshackle shed huddled in the shadow of the much larger buildings surrounding it.
“Here’s as far as I go,” the man said, stepping away from them. “Your girl’s in the hut down there. I’m away before Bradshaw or the runners catch me. Nice doin’ business with you gents.” With that he tipped his filthy hat and began to run away.
“Oi!” Formby yelled, but Benedict didn’t much care for the fellow at the moment; nothing mattered but seeing Phoebe was safe and well.
“Come on,” he cursed, seeing Formby give a signal to the runner who had been tailing them to keep after the man.
Not waiting to see if Formby was with him or not, Benedict turned and ran towards the hut. As he approached he realised he could smell smoke and the sunrise glinted in the glass of the window. Except as he drew closer he realised sunrise was well passed and what he was seeing was flames. “Phoebe!” he cried as he reached the building.
He battered against the door, kicking it and not feeling the pain in his injured shoulder as he barged the door open and stumbled inside. The tiny space was all alight, flames licking up the walls and the room filled with thick, acrid smoke. But one thing was clear enough. Phoebe wasn’t here. Had it all been a trick?
Benedict stumbled outside gagging and choking and gasping for air as Formby caught up with him.
“She’s not there,” he cried, terror and anger raging for dominance. By God, where was she? Where was she? “We’re either too late or we’ve been duped,” he said, his voice full of misery.
“No, lad, don’t reckon we have,” Formby said, growing very still beside him, his voice quiet.
He looked up as a shabby hackney carriage stopped not far from them and the disreputable-looking driver jumped down and opened the door. Benedict watched as Oliver stepped out and then paused before his foot hit the ground. Their eyes met across the cobbled courtyard and Benedict felt a burst of rage so fierce he thought he might combust from the sheer heat of it.
Oliver froze, his eyes darting to the building which was now fully alight and sending plumes of black smoke and sparks spiralling up into the cloudless summer skies.
“Where is she?” Benedict raged, storming towards Oliver and then forcing himself to stop as the man drew out a pistol.
“Not where I left her, clearly,” Oliver replied looking more amused than annoyed. “How like a woman to overset all my plans.” He stepped to the floor and gestured to the driver. “Turn around and come back for me,” he instructed before casting his eyes around the place. “I can only assume that she did a clever little number on Hubert, the damned fool. I should have known not to leave anything to chance. She’s too clever a girl to think she wouldn’t try and escape.” He sounded rather admiring but Benedict just wanted to kill him for everything he had put her through. “I suppose she convinced him that you were a better bet for a ripe plucking,” he replied with a laugh. “True enough I suppose as I had planned to kill him.” His head quirked to one side a little as he grinned. “Perhaps he wasn’t as stupid as he looked. The devil of it is I’ll have to catch her again now.”
He held the gun trained on Benedict but began to look about at the abandoned warehouses that surrounded them. “Well now, Ben. Do you remember when we were boys, we used to play at hide and seek?” he asked walking backwards away from him but not dropping the gun. “I think Phoebe wants us to play,” he said, with a nasty expression. “Finders keepers,” he called in a sing song voice before running into o
ne of the buildings.
“Phoebe!” Benedict cried, his voice echoing around the empty buildings. “Phoebe! Oliver is here, he’s armed love. Hide yourself and stay put.”
With his heart beating in a sickening fashion, Benedict prayed for her safety and ran into the building after Oliver. Formby had disappeared, but he hoped the fellow was up to something, and that he was armed.
***
Phoebe shifted in her hiding spot and then froze as Benedict’s voice rang out across the morning. Despite the warning in his words she could have cried with relief. He’d come! Not that she’d had any doubt of his intentions, but so many things could have gone wrong. She held her breath as footsteps rang out downstairs. They weren’t out of the woods yet.
Moving forwards she crawled on hands and knees over the dusty floor and peered down between some broken floorboards. She caught a brief glimpse of Oliver making towards the stairs before he was lost from sight. He was coming up.
Scurrying backwards she returned to her hiding place with her heart thudding in her chest and looked about for a weapon. There were broken and empty crates and barrels all around her and lying on the floor about ten feet away lay an iron crow bar. Damn. Why hadn’t she seen it earlier. Now all she could do was duck down out of sight.
“Phoebe,” Oliver called, his tone light hearted. “Come out, love,” he said. “We’ll miss our boat if you don’t hurry. Remember what fun we’ll have in America. There’ll be so many less-judgemental fools over there forever droning on about propriety and manners. You’ll be so much freer. We both shall!”
Good Lord he was insane. He simply had to be to believe she would ever willingly go with him. Or perhaps he was just playing with her, and as soon as she was discovered he’d put that pistol to good use. Either way, she knew his intentions were dark. Hardly daring to breathe she kept perfectly still as he walked past the barrels she was sheltering behind and on into the next room. As he went out of sight she heard footsteps downstairs and her heart leapt with fear as she realised Ben had followed him into the building. If he came up now and Oliver heard him he’d be a sitting duck.
Dying For A Duke Page 24
