by Corwin, Amy
The door was solid oak and she had seen Red holding a stout wooden bar when he closed it. She could not get out that way.
She just had to keep her wits about her and not give up hope. Escape might still be possible. With luck, perhaps she could get away before her kidnappers managed to drain all the capital out of her father’s estate. Being penniless didn’t bear consideration. She would never get to Egypt without money.
The next morning, Rose reappeared with another laden tray and an old flour sack slung over a shoulder.
“Oh, Miss, if you could just take this tray,” she gasped, out of breath.
Charlotte stepped forward as if to grasp the tray, thinking to run out while the maid was still juggling the food and the bag. Unfortunately, Red appeared in the doorway behind her. Escape cut off, she smiled at Rose and took the tray, setting it on the wobbly table.
“I have brung you some pear preserves—we opened them fresh this morning, Miss. And cook had some lovely buns, along with the sausage and cheese.”
More cheese. Charlotte liked cheddar, but if she was going to have it every day, her imprisonment was going to get very tedious. She longed for an egg or two and some lovely, rare roast beef with roasted potatoes and carrots: anything other than orange cheese.
“This is lovely,” Charlotte said, picking up the tea towel covering the tray. There was a small, thick white bowl of butter next to several still-warm buns. A diminutive jar contained the pear preserves and the pot of tea still felt warm to the touch. “I don’t suppose you could bring me some eggs?” she asked.
“I will see what I can do,” Rose replied. She gestured toward Red, still standing in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot as if horribly uncomfortable. “Now, this rogue said you wanted a change, so I have brung up a few things. I hope they are all right. The big lummox here will be back later with a bucket of water.”
The big lummox, Red, blushed and gazed at his feet unhappily while Rose chattered. His large ears turned a deep purple as she ignored him. She pulled several garments out of the bag, including a stout linen gown and Spencer in drab tan.
“Here is a cake of soap,” she said as she continued pulling items out of the sack. She scattered them over the narrow cot. “I have brung yesterday’s news—there is an article about you, too—ever so nice!”
“Lovely,” Charlotte murmured, picking up the wrinkled pages of The Morning Post. There was a bold title exclaiming “American Heiress Missing under Peculiar Circumstances!” At least it didn’t say, “Peculiar American Heiress Missing” which would have been infinitely worse.
“Here is a bible, as well as a novel you will like.” She pulled a few more articles out of the bag. “That is it, then! Have you everything you need, Miss?”
Everything except freedom.
“Yes, I expect so. Thank you, Rose.”
She curtseyed and turned, pushing Red out of the way as she skimmed through the doorway. Feeling sorry for him, Charlotte watched him gaze hopelessly after the maid.
After he shut the door, Charlotte picked up the novel and grimaced. The book was entitled Idiot Heiress, published in 1805 by some author who elected to remain anonymous.
She couldn’t help but feel a little chagrined that Rose had picked this particular volume, although the smiling girl probably had not even bothered to look at the title when she snatched it to add to the flour sack for Charlotte. Goodness knows where she got it from anyway. The midden heap, most likely.
Charlotte’s wayward mind continued to speculate about where she was imprisoned. Unfortunately, the only place that came to mind was the attic of the nasty little man who had engineered this plot. She really didn’t want to dwell on the implications.
He could just waltz up the stairs at any time and accost her. She shivered and pushed the thought away, leafing through the newspaper.
Under the glaring title “American Heiress Missing under Peculiar Circumstances!” there was a smaller sub- title that read, “Third victim of the Deadly Duke.”
The Deadly Duke? She frowned and read the article with increasing trepidation.
It appears that a certain Duke, desperate to escape the clutches of three of our bolder debutantes has chosen to eliminate them rather than rebuff them in a more gentlemanly fashion. The body of Lady Anne Franklin was found in the garden of the Earl of Sheffield’s town home in London not three weeks since. She had been foully murdered by a blow from a marble cherub, and her poor remains were discovered near an ornamental pergola during a ball given in honor of the Earl’s daughter, Lady Beatrice (see Society Happenings, page 6).
Heinous though this crime was, it appears that the blood of one beauteous damsel wasn’t sufficient to sate this evil monster’s desire to be wholly rid of the members of the fairer sex pursuing him. Two nights ago, Miss Suzanne
Mooreland, a fair lady of barely twenty years of age, was found brutally shorn of life in the coach of said duke, after a soirée hosted by the duke’s brother-in-law. It is reported that this young lady had her throat cut by a hoof knife, left on the floor of the carriage.
“Miss Mooreland—dead?” The newspaper crumpled as her hands tightened convulsively. She liked Miss Mooreland. It couldn’t be true that she was dead: Charlotte had just spoken to her. Miss Mooreland had generously helped the duke by writing that note….
Had Miss Mooreland’s death been the result of the note? Horrified, Charlotte struggled to breathe in the suddenly airless atmosphere of the hot, dry attic. She prayed Miss Mooreland had not suffered—had not known what was happening to her—and Charlotte tried unsuccessfully to convince herself that she had not caused Miss Mooreland’s death by influencing her to write the note.
Desperate for details, she read the rest of the article.
Tragically, a third young lady, a rich American Heiress under the guardianship of the duke’s uncle, is now missing and presumed dead. She will be the third young lady to meet her demise at the hands of this diabolical madman when her mortal remains are uncovered. No trace has yet been found of this unfortunate young lady, but it is presumed she will be soon discovered, and the manner of her tragic end will be revealed in these very pages.
“What slanderous nonsense!” Charlotte exclaimed, throwing the paper down on the floor next to her chair. She stood up and strode restlessly across the floor. “I have not been murdered! Oh, this is terrible—this is a nightmare!”
However, she knew Lady Anne had been found with her head quite concave in Lady Beatrice’s garden. Charlotte had discounted the sly innuendos about Nathaniel as errant nonsense. Anyone could see he was a kind man. Thoughtful. She got up and paced the room. Surely, Nathaniel….
No, he couldn’t.
Could he? He had such smiling eyes, and he was so charming. But he was desperate, too. He was a man who had been pushed too far: a misogynist.
She also remembered the ball only too well and how they had first met on the flagstone terrace. Nathaniel had been coming back from the garden, not out from the ballroom. However, he did not have blood on him as surely he must if he were guilty.
Nonetheless, could she be sure? His dark jacket could have hidden stains in the wavering, uncertain light from the paper lanterns.
However, he had not behaved oddly. At least….
When she considered it, he had seemed a little edgy. Charlotte had assumed it was because the other ladies wouldn’t leave him alone. He said as much later, when he made his absurd proposal for a mock engagement.
She rubbed her temples, gazing with unseeing eyes at the cobwebbed, gray windows.
The situation was absurd. He had not killed her; the newspaper was wrong about the other women, as well. She hurried over and picked up the paper again, rereading the article. Miss Mooreland had been found in his coach. Further down, it indicated that her long white neck had been severed, right under the chin, with a hoof knife.
Poor Nathaniel. The evidence was damning, indeed.
Chapter Twenty-One
Detective Dutie
s. — All the steps taken by a constable to detect a crime after it has been committed, come under the head of “detective duties.” — Constable’s Pocket Guide
After having nothing to do all day except fret, Charlotte was tense and out of sorts when she heard a creak outside the door. She grabbed the heavy white china teapot, suddenly afraid that her death as described in the newspaper was only a little delayed. Through the door she could hear the sounds of the bar being removed.
It swung open, revealing Red carrying a bucket of water.
She let out the breath she was holding and placed the pot back on the rickety table. “Red, I am glad it is you.”
“Miss?” Red asked, his ginger brows rising. “Who else would it be?”
“That dreadful little man.”
“No, Miss. It be me. I brung you the water you asked for and a towel.” He had a threadbare white linen rag draped over his shoulder. He gently handed to her before he set the bucket on the floor.
“Red, I need to ask another favor of you,” she said.
He eyed her warily. “Yes?”
“Could you bring me writing supplies? I must to write a letter to my guardian.”
He shook his head. “Sorry, Miss. Cannot.”
“Certainly you can!” she replied a little tartly. After a deep breath, she smiled at him. “I need to let them know I am alive. That is all I will write, that I am quite well, and they should pay the ransom.” She picked up the newspaper and rattled it. “You heard Rose. There is an article in the paper that says I have been murdered. If Mr. Archer believes me to be dead, he will not pay the ransom. You will not get anything. Surely, you see that?”
“Perhaps.” He scratched his head. “But—”
“Oh, do be reasonable. Have you heard anything to indicate they have decided to pay?”
“No, Miss, and it is a bit of a pickle.” There was a hard gleam in his eye that made her shiver. He’d been in contact with the other man and there had not been any money. If the Archers didn’t pay the ransom, she would, indeed, end up dead or worse, married to her kidnapper and dead shortly thereafter.
She intended to live a long and interesting life exploring other dead peoples’ tombs along the banks of the Nile.
As she gazed at Red, the look in his eyes made her wonder if the idea of killing her was more attractive to his partner than marriage, even a temporary one.
She shivered and renewed her plea. “You must see my point. We simply have to let Mr. Archer know I am alive. I will urge him to meet the terms of the ransom as quickly as possible so that I may be released. That is what we all desire, is it not?”
He shrugged and turned toward the door. “Mayhap I can find a bit of paper and such.”
“Thank you!” Charlotte said, following him to the door. She lightly touched his sleeve. “It is the only alternative, you know.”
He eyed her but didn’t agree. After he shut the door, Charlotte sat with a thump on the only chair in the room.
Please let him bring me what I need.
He didn’t return until after dark. However when he did arrive, he carried a storm lantern in one huge fist and a crumpled paper and pencil in the other.
“This will have to do,” he said when he caught her gaze on the writing supplies. “Could not get no quill nor pot of ink. They all know I cannot write. What would I be needing with such things?”
“This is quite all right, Red. Lovely!” She smoothed the crumpled, coarse paper out on her rickety table and stared at it for a few minutes before writing.
Red leaned over her, as if trying to read.
“Shall I read it as I write?” she asked. She gazed up at him, eyes wide, holding the pencil over the paper.
He grunted his agreement and stayed where he was, standing behind her chair, hanging over her shoulder. She stifled her irritation and resumed writing.
“Dear Mr. Archer,” she said, scribbling those exact words and saying them aloud. “I wish you to know I am quite safe for the moment and in excellent health. However, you must, by now, realize I am at the mercy of a pair of dangerous kidnappers. Please, I beg of you, pay the ransom they ask as soon as possible.” She paused, licking the tip of the pencil. Now was the tricky part.
She wrote, “I feel certain I am still in London, held in an attic. My jailor is an extraordinarily large, red-haired man called Red, and there is a maid named Rose. There is also a white, three-legged dog. The second kidnapper is a gentleman. I do not know his name and cannot describe him, except he is fairly short. That is all the information I can give you. Sincerely, Charlotte Haywood.”
However, what she said out loud as she wrote was quite different. “I am being treated very well and have been fed and entertained, so do not worry overmuch on my behalf. However, I do not believe they will continue to treat me well if the ransom is delayed. Please pay with all speed, your loving ward, Charlotte Haywood.”
She lay the pencil down and folded the note in thirds before twisting it into a screw. “You will take this directly to my guardian, Mr. Archer?”
Red gingerly took the paper, eyeing Charlotte. “You wrote what you said?”
“Yes, certainly.” She stared unblinkingly into his eyes.
Please do not show it to your horrible associate. He’ll kill me if he reads it. Please just take it to the Archers. She stared at him, silently urging him to do as she desired, and touched his hand as if that gesture could impel him to do as she wished.
“Aye. I will take it.”
She smiled. “Once they know I am still alive, they will pay the ransom. You will see.”
“I hope so.”
“So do I,” Charlotte replied.
How many places were there in London with scruffy, white, three-legged dogs, a giant named Red, and a maid named Rose? Her clues had to lead the Archers to her.
Red left, barring the door behind him, however as soon as she was alone, doubts plagued her. She’d addressed the note to her guardian, but perhaps she should have sent it to Nathaniel. She remembered their discussions. He was intelligent for an aristocrat.
She definitely should have addressed it to him.
****
Nathaniel and Cheery Gaunt both arrived at the Archer’s residence simultaneously. Nathaniel clapped his friend on the shoulder and the butler ushered them up the stairs to the sitting room. Lady Victoria sat on a low sofa, leafing through a journal while Archer paced and informed her of his plans for the day.
“This just arrived, sir,” the butler said, handing a twisted scrap of paper to Archer.
“What is it?” Nathaniel asked, taking a seat and stretching out his long legs. He stifled a yawn. Despite his late arrival home and the events of the preceding evening, his servants had found two damsels hidden in his bed chamber: one under his bed and one in his wardrobe.
It had taken him an hour to relax enough to fall asleep. He had not nodded off until the sun was already peeping through the heavy blue damask curtains of his chamber. By noon, he was awake and unable to sleep any longer.
All he could think about was Miss Haywood. Had the murderer gotten her, too, as the newspapers suggested?
“Good God!” Archer exclaimed, handing the paper to Gaunt. “Read that!”
Cheery read through the note quickly and smiled in his sardonic way. “Clever girl.”
“What is it?” Nathaniel asked, sitting up.
“Read it for yourself.” Cheery handed him the wrinkled paper.
“Thank God she is alive! How did she manage to get this note to us?”
“I take it that at least the large man by the name of Red is amenable to helping her.”
“Do you think he will help her escape?” Nathaniel stood and paced to the window and back.
Cheery shook his head, his crooked smile twisting his lips. “No, but at least she can communicate through him and send us information.” He twitched the paper away from Nathaniel and studied it again. “I doubt this man, Red, can read, or he would never have let this note
reach us.”
“Yes, and she’s in London—or at least she thinks she is. In an attic.” Nathaniel ran a hand through his hair. “Damn! It is nearly July. Do you have any idea how hot it gets under the eaves! What an abysmal place to hold her. We must find her, and soon.”
“I agree,” Cheery replied dryly. “But despite the physical discomforts of staying in an attic, she is actually safe and from the sound of it, doing quite well.”
“What do you mean, ‘doing quite well’? She is probably frightened out of her wits! Do you have any idea what torments she must be suffering?” Nathaniel asked.
Cheery cocked his head to one side and eyed him. “Does she sound frightened to you?”
“Of course she does not,” Archer interjected. “She is brave, and she will keep her wits about her.”
“Bloody hell!” Nathaniel felt like a skewered capon slowly turning over a fire. He longed to see Charlotte again and had to know if she was unharmed. Worse yet, he missed her. “She is begging us to pay the ransom. She must be terrified.”
“Hardly begging,” Archer murmured.
“May I keep this note?” Cheery refolded the paper and placed it carefully in an inner pocket of his jacket before standing.
Nathaniel eyed him, wanting to take the scrap of paper back. It was his only link to Charlotte. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Try to locate her, of course.”
“I thought you were working to clear me of murder?”
“I believe it might be possible to do both.”
Lady Victoria laid her fashion journal on her lap and clasped her hands on top of it. Despite her calm demeanor, her eyes were circled with dark shadows. “Do sit down, Your Grace. Would you care for some tea?”
Nathaniel made another circuit around the room. “No. I intend to scour London until I find Char—Miss Haywood.”
“Mr. Gaunt will find her,” Lady Victoria said. “I am sure of it”
Archer nodded in agreement with his wife.
Stung, Nathaniel replied, “I will find her, damn it!”
