by Allegra Gray
Alex had asked her a few brief questions, but since they’d already shared the ride from Montgrave to London, there was little more to cover.
“If these men are at the warehouse, holding Charity, how shall we approach them?” Philippe asked.
“It depends,” Alex said. “If it were possible to sneak up on them, a pistol, trained on each man…but I doubt they would be so careless.”
“If you have the opportunity, perhaps we might negotiate her release,” Bea suggested.
“I’m listening,” the duke said. “How? We must offer something that would be more valuable to them than Charity.”
“They already stole the plans they were after, no?” Philippe put in. “What else could there be?”
Bea thought. “I knew more of their operations than Charity,” she said slowly. “I would offer myself—”
“No,” the two men emphatically interjected.
“Besides,” Alex said, “you may have known more two days ago, but by now Charity will have learned enough—names, faces, habits—to pose a greater threat.” Assuming she was still alive.
The duke didn’t say this last, but Bea heard it nonetheless. “All right, then, a better idea,” she offered. “Think like the spies. They need to deliver those plans to Bonaparte, or his men. So what they need most now is safe passage from England, correct? We offer that to them, in exchange for Charity. We would be lying, of course.”
“An interesting idea,” Philippe said.
“Indeed, it has merit,” Alex agreed. “Should the opportunity arise, we shall try that tactic.” Accustomed to decision making, he spoke with authority—though his brows drew together as he finished. “My fear is that they may already have left.”
No one brought up the questions Bea knew loomed in their minds: what would they do next, if the kidnappers had left, and the warehouse was empty? Or, worse—if Charity’s fate had already been decided?
The group fell silent again. Philippe leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, his sensual lips pressed together in a pensive expression. It was a side of him she’d never seen before.
Outside, the carriage approached the river, the seamy aroma of river life filtering through the vehicle’s windows. Bea peered out. A gray box of a building, the storehouse blended well with its surroundings. The Woolwich Dockyard, home to numerous shipbuilding facilities and storehouses like the one they approached, was a site of constant activity—that is, except for the particular building they’d identified. Nearby, two men loaded a crane with large crates, but the warehouse behind them was still.
They passed by the building once, twice, then drew down the street a way and stopped. The driver appeared at the window. “Your Grace?”
“No sign of anyone from your viewpoint?” the duke asked.
“No,” the driver confirmed.
“We’ll search the building. First, I intend to ask the laborers over yonder if they’ve noticed any unusual comings and goings.”
“Certainly,” Philippe said. “My father always used to say, ‘Information is ammunition.’ But may I make a suggestion? Let me approach them. Your clothing marks you as a nobleman, and your driver is wearing livery. You are sure to put them on guard.” Philippe, in contrast, still wore the trousers and shirt he normally painted in. Though of high quality, the garments bore little embellishment.
Alex hesitated, then nodded.
Bea clenched her hands in her skirts as Philippe left the carriage, his look serious, his stride brisk. She wondered again at the change in him. This chivalrous, protective side that made her heart swell. And he was here because of her. To protect her, and come to the aid of a young woman he barely knew. He hadn’t known the seriousness of the situation when he’d made the decision to come; he’d only known Bea was upset. Surely his presence now showed he cared for her as more than just a passing fancy.
Unfortunately, Philippe reappeared minutes later with nothing to report.
Alex’s grim expression grew even darker. “Then we stick with the plan. We search the building ourselves, top to bottom, inside and out.”
Finally. The waiting had been driving her mad. The creeping anxiety…she needed to do something. Bea shifted forward, preparing to stand.
“Bea, I am sorry,” Alex said. “I cannot in good conscience allow you to come any further than this. I cannot say if those men are inside, if they have Charity. But I can tell you they are unquestionably dangerous.”
“But—”
“Chérie,” Philippe said, “you have admirably led us this far. If you were to come, both the duke and I would feel compelled to protect you at every turn—which may slow us in searching for your friend.”
Bea squeezed her eyes shut, the frustration overwhelming, though she knew it was useless to argue. “All right,” she conceded, drooping back into her seat. She knew not how to wield a weapon. The duke and Philippe were right—she would be an encumbrance, and what mattered most now was Charity.
“The driver will retreat a safe distance—a vehicle such as mine is too noticeable here,” Alex told her. “Remain in the carriage. The moment we find Charity, we will return. She will need you then.”
She nodded, her throat tight with fear. She suspected this—offering solace, woman to woman—was the true reason Alex had insisted she come. If they were lucky enough to find Charity, there was no telling what might have befallen her in the past twenty-some hours. If she’d been beaten, or raped…dear God. Charity was an innocent. And though Bea had always considered herself a loyal friend to Elizabeth and her sister, she felt wretchedly ill-equipped to provide the sort of help that would allow Charity to cope with an enormity Bea herself barely understood.
Alex grabbed his case from beneath the carriage seat, and both men exited into the alley next to the warehouse.
Bea bent her head in prayer.
The duke extracted two pistols from the felt-lined container. He tested the weight of one, then extended the other to Philippe. “Do you know how to use one of these?”
This was not the time to feel slighted. “I do,” Philippe answered simply.
The duke regarded him steadily. “I am going to trust you are the honest man that Beatrice believes you to be. But do me one favor. If you are not, at least refrain from shooting me in the back.”
He didn’t give Philippe a chance to respond before using his boot to nudge open the door and gesturing forward with his pistol. “Let’s go. Quiet.”
The duke went first. Philippe followed, gun at the ready. The life of an artist did not include frequent gun battles, but Philippe was no stranger to the acrid taste of fear that stung the back of his throat now. He was old enough to remember the Revolution—the days of hiding, travel to strange places, stern-faced officials questioning his stepfather, who changed his answers depending on who was doing the asking. He’d learned to handle a weapon at an early age—about the same time he’d sworn off politics as a possible career. He was no expert, but by God, he could hit his target—if it came to that.
Sunlight filtered through the warehouse door and windows to weakly illuminate a vast empty shell of a building. A layer of dust and grit covered the floor, and the few remaining empty crates and timbers were stacked along the walls.
A rat scurried across one corner, startled by their presence. But for it, the dank warehouse appeared deserted.
Philippe pointed to the ground, drawing the duke’s attention to a series of footprints made visible by the dust. Whether made by multiple men or the multiple comings and goings of one man, it was difficult to say, but they clearly led toward the east wall, where several doors marked the presence of offices for the storehouse manager and accountants.
The two men met each other’s gaze, then moved forward, weapons aloft.
Farther from the entryway, the grit on the floor lessened and the prints disappeared. The duke paused, looking down, then shrugged. He quietly pushed open the first door. He peered in and shook his head.
Philippe tried the sec
ond. He knew immediately: the air here had been disturbed. Though dark and quiet now, the room smelled of human activity. He motioned Alex over.
A table and chairs, a crust of bread…had this place been used by the French agents, or others among London’s underworld of vagrants and smugglers?
“There.” Philippe kept his voice low and pointed to a woman’s reticule at the table’s edge. “Does that belong to Miss Medford?”
The duke quickly sifted through the contents. “Bloody hell. I think so. I can’t be sure. I have never had cause to pay close attention—Charity must have any number of handbags. And Bea mentioned there is a woman involved in the French operations. This could belong to her.”
“Safe to assume we’ve found their meeting place, at least.”
A sliver of pink beneath the table caught Philippe’s attention. He bent down and fished out an embroidered handkerchief. “C. M. Charity has been here.” Given the strange intimacy of the situation, it seemed natural to use her first name, in spite of having met her only twice.
“Good.” The duke’s dark brows drew together. “But where is she now?”
Even in the dim light, Philippe could sense the waves of tension emanating from the other man as though they were visible. Understandable, but right now they needed logic more than emotion. He forced himself to think through the situation. “You said these papers were stolen only last night?”
Alex nodded.
“And your sister-in-law was taken only a few hours before that,” he reasoned, speaking at a normal volume now that it was clear they weren’t going to surprise a group of dangerous men. “As Lady Pullington suggested, the informants have what they came for, and are probably now trying to leave your country. The question is, would they risk taking Charity with them?”
“I cannot fathom she’d go willingly…and keeping her unconscious would attract too much attention.”
Philippe shifted the weight of his pistol and moved back toward the door to the small room, looking out on the seemingly empty warehouse. “If they did not keep her with them, then—”
“Do not even suggest to me that they killed her.” The duke voiced the fear no one had been willing to mention when the ladies, Elizabeth and Beatrice, had been present.
“Actually,” Philippe said, “I was going to suggest there would not have been time to take her far. Where else around here could a lone woman be hidden?”
“A ship’s hold,” the duke said dully. “Bloody Christ, we’re at the docks. There are any number of boats, alleys, crates, cellars…”
Philippe swallowed hard at the unpleasant imagery. “Is there any more to this building?” He checked the door to the third office as he asked the question, but, as expected, found it empty.
“In the alley. Outside.” Urgency filled the duke’s tone. “Did you see a second entry—a set of stairs, leading down?”
“A cellar, this near to the water?” Philippe asked dubiously. But he and Alex were already moving in that direction.
Sure enough, outside the building at one end, adjacent to the next warehouse over, a narrow set of concrete stairs led to the building’s underground level.
The duke took the steps two at a time, but the narrow space was dark and cramped. He turned to Philippe, behind him. “I can’t see a thing down here. We need light.”
Philippe dashed back to the room inside the warehouse, acquired a candle and match, then rejoined the duke.
At the bottom of the stairs, a low tunnel led to a single door, held closed by a thick iron bar.
Philippe’s heart pounded, and he knew from Alex’s harsh breath the other man felt it, too: hope, suspense, and the breath-stealing fear that on the other side of the door the search would end with evidence of an innocent life cut short.
The duke reached for the bar.
“Let me,” Philippe said. He was no relation to Charity. He knew the horrible things that had been done in the quest for power in France. Though if that were the case now, he could not shield his friend from it for long. He handed the candle to the duke and set the pistol aside. Easing the bar from its slot, he propped it against the wall, then reclaimed his weapon as Alex pushed the door open to reveal a space that was more accurately described as a pit than a room.
A female figure huddled on the earthen floor. Her head was down, but her blond ringlets were unmistakable.
“Thank God.” Alex breathed the prayer in unison with Philippe’s utterance of its French translation. “Remercier Dieu.”
Her head jerked up at the intrusion and she scuttled back across the ground, terror in her eyes.
Philippe and the duke looked at each other and simultaneously lowered the weapons they’d both still been holding at the ready.
“Charity,” the duke spoke softly. “It’s me, Alex. And Philippe Durand. We’ve come to help. You need not fear us.”
Slowly the terror in her eyes was replaced by recognition. “Alex?” she croaked. Her chest gave a great heaving sob, and she held out her hands to him.
Even in the candlelight, Philippe could see her fingertips were scraped and bloody nubbins. His gaze flew to the door. She must have clawed at it for hours.
He fought a rising wave of rage. They might not have killed her outright, but they’d left her here to die. What kind of people could do this to a woman? To any human?
He stood back as the duke scooped his sister-in-law up into his arms, cradling her head against his shoulder as gently as though she were a baby. Her clothes, once the envy of other London misses, were torn and soiled. God only knew what they’d done to her. Whether they’d touched her, defiled her. His own countrymen. Philippe fought another wave of anger, this one mixed with nausea. No wonder the duke had asked whether he was to be trusted.
Alex met Philippe’s eye, his gaze burning with fierce protectiveness as he cradled his sister-in-law. “No one—no one—is ever going to know what we saw here.”
Philippe understood. Completely. Innocent victim or not, Charity would be ruined if word of her captivity to three men got out, let alone the conditions under which she’d been found. She would be the subject of pity and scorn—so very wrong for the once-sparkling miss who held all of London in the palm of her hand.
“I would kill myself,” Philippe promised fervently, “before I would see further harm come to her.”
Alex gave a terse nod, then returned his focus to Charity. “Come on, baby,” he whispered. “We’re going home.”
Chapter 16
Elizabeth clung tearfully to her little sister, while the duke called for a doctor and sent word to Lord Castlereagh.
Charity had spoken little in the carriage as she, Bea, Philippe, and Alex had returned from the empty warehouse. She had merely clutched Bea’s hand, disoriented and chilled.
“I want to go home,” she’d pled upon arriving at her sister’s house instead.
“Charity, you’ll have to stay with us for a while,” Elizabeth had gently explained, after overcoming the emotions that clogged her throat upon first seeing her sister. “Alex can ensure you receive the best care, and protection.”
She’d nodded dully. Servants rushed to bring her a quilt and honey-laced tea. As the warmth seeped in, she began to perk up. “I suppose you all have a great many questions,” she said, taking in the cluster of anxious faces watching her.
“They can wait until you’ve seen the physician,” the duke told her. “And until Lord Castlereagh arrives. I am certain he will wish to speak with you as well. I do not expect him before morning, however, as he indicated urgent business was afoot.”
Charity nodded her understanding, leaving the group little to do but wait. Elizabeth sat next to her sister on a sofa, patting her repeatedly and murmuring, “Don’t you worry any longer. You’ll be all right now.” The duke sat on Elizabeth’s other side, holding his wife’s hand.
Soon, both Bea and Philippe felt like intruders to the intimate family reunion.
Philippe shifted awkwardly. He shared their gr
eat relief at finding Charity alive and, as far as the eye could see, well. Indeed, he’d expected worse. But the relief on Charity’s behalf did not erase the undercurrent of tension between him and the other nonfamilial member present in the room. He and Bea had some things to sort out—and this time, he wasn’t going to settle for half answers and vague explanations.
Meanwhile, Charity had covered Elizabeth’s patting hand with her own. “Dear E., I am terribly sorry to have worried you so. I shall recover, though. You don’t have to pat me as though I might disappear in a puff of smoke if you fail to keep a hand on me.”
“Oh, yes, I do,” her sister argued with a watery smile.
Charity returned her sister’s smile, but then gazed mournfully at her injured fingertips. “I suppose,” she said, “that for some time I shall be forced to avoid outings which might require me to remove my gloves.”
Fresh tears sprang to Elizabeth’s eyes, and even Philippe felt a swell of relief and pride at the young lady’s uncrushed spirit. Beside him, Bea dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
A tap at the door indicated the doctor’s arrival, making Philippe even more uncomfortable. Miss Medford’s privacy had been violated enough. He, an outsider, did not belong here. He rose to leave.
The duke went to speak in hushed tones with the professional man.
Bea stood as well. “I hope you will understand, but I really should be going. I am so very tired—though my day has not, undoubtedly, been as trying as some, it has been long.”
“Of course. But Bea, we can easily put you up here,” Elizabeth offered. “You’re safe here.”
“I believe I’d prefer the comfort of my own home, though I thank you.” She flicked a glance at Philippe. Was she nervous?
“Please, E., let me know if there is anything else—the least thing, truly—I can do. I shall call on you tomorrow, and I will gladly answer any questions the Foreign Secretary has for me.”
